Since when did a child's first birthday party become the place to meet hot guys?
This was the thought that crossed my mind yesterday, as I sat in Beck-lar’s sisters garden, watching ten or more inebriated - yet never the less very pleasing on the eye – grown men launch themselves from the garden decking into the ball-pool section of a child’s bouncy castle, some seven foot away.
I had been genuinely touched to receive an invitation to the first birthday party of Beck-lar’s niece, as these sorts of things can be very much “family affairs”. Truth be told one of the main things I miss about being a "smug married" is the low-key, family orientated parties that you get invited to. I had been looking forward to schmoozing with aunties and uncles, cooing over the birthday girl and her nursery playmates, and enjoying jelly and ice cream in the sunshine. I was looking forward to singing happy birthday, and watching the birthday girl take more pleasure in playing with the wrapping paper her mum had helped her rip off her presents than the actual presents themselves, and hadn’t really even considered the possibility that there might be a requirement for me to “dress to kill”.
Beck-lar’s sister and her chap are a young couple, so I had expected to see their other young “couple friends” with their children, however I hadn’t expected the sudden influx of man-totty (friends and colleagues of the birthday girl’s father) around the 3pm mark, who arrived with pretty pink-wrapped, bowed and ribboned gifts for the birthday girl under one arm, and a crates of beer under the other. Given that I hadn’t really put much thought into my wardrobe choice I was a little thrown by the presence of the men-folk. Why hadn’t I factored this in when choosing my attire for the afternoon? When I was married hadn’t I attended functions just like this? Didn’t my single attractive friends also attend these functions? With hindsight of course I realise they did, it’s just that at the time their marital status was of no consequence to me, and I wasn’t in a position to want to judge their eligibility as “eye candy”.
Never the less I sat there, somewhat bemused as to where these boys had come from, and why no’one had warned me. Had I been aware I would certainly have prepared accordingly for the occasion - and by that I mean I would have spent more time on my make-up that morning and would have limited my alcohol consumption at the party. As it was, by the time they arrived I had consumed at least three glasses of Rosé, and was already spouting a fair amount of gibberish. Beck-lar was still feeling the after effects of a night out on the Malibu the previous evening and was in no state to flirt. No words needed to be passed between us...we both knew this wasn’t the day for us to be turning on the charm for the gentlemen in question. Luckily for us there was an abundance of girl totty to keep the boys entertained without us, in the form of the birthday girl's mum's friends. I don't mind admitting that I was somewhat relieved about this!
I'm sure by now you've spotted that there is of course a moral to this story ladies and gents...and that is - to expect the unexpected. Be prepared, because you just never know what opportunities life might throw at you, but the one thing you can always count on, is that they’ll come hurtling towards you in the most unlikely places.
So, with me hiding behind my enormous Gucci shades, and Beck-lar behind her adorable niece, we watched the totty from the other side of the garden. Marvelling at their check-shirted, long-shorted, flip-flopped, Ray-Ban Aviator'd hot summery goodness, and thanked the Lord that he’d at least give us something pretty to look at for the afternoon.
Monday 31 May 2010
Tuesday 25 May 2010
The Best Of Friends
My best friends truly are a varied bunch, and are a constant source of amusement to me. Bridget Jones once referred to her friends as her “Urban Family” and I can’t think of a better way to describe them. I mean, you can choose your friends...and who wouldn’t admit that usually, they’d rather spend time with their friends than their actual family! So I wanted you to know a bit more about mine...what with them being such a huge part of my life...
Let’s take Princess... blonde, gorgeous, caring and loyal. She’s bright, articulate and has the sweetest soul imaginable. She is honest and true, and has always been there to support me. She tells me what I want to hear, and on the occasions where it’s required, what I need to hear. She is an inspiration to me, and quite honestly I sometimes loathe myself for never being able to be as good a friend to her as she is to me. She will remember birthdays and special events with cards and flowers. The sentiment is always genuine, and even when her own world is falling apart around her, she will put anything on hold in order to be there for each and every one of her friends....she also says some of the DUMBEST things! Blonde to the core, she is the (hilarious) epitome of the “blonde” stereotype. This is the girl who had me in stitches when I found out that whilst walking past a newspaper stand with a headline screaming “Bank Robbers Strike!” she questioned what on earth bank robbers needed to go on strike for? Better pay? Better holidays? It wasn’t so much the fact that she asked herself the question that amused me...but that even when she’d realised her faux pas, she felt she should share the blondeness with me. Princess is a girl who can laugh at herself, and I adore her with all of my heart.
Next we have Jonesy...my oldest friend, although why we ever became friends is still beyond me, bearing in mind that within hours of meeting her in the school playground I had (unintentionally) gouged a chunk out of her face with my nails. Both of us were new to the town, the school and the people in general, and so a friendship formed that has proved unbreakable. Jonesy is from the school of “tough love”. Some people would call her blunt...and I would kick their heads in for saying it as it makes it sound like a negative thing. She’s honest...in fact she’s incapable of being anything but honest, and that’s why she’s so dear to me. Jonesy is the type of girl that when I complain about the fact I’m not happy with my weight, and I feel like a lard arse, turns around and says “well, perhaps if you stopped eating so much CRAP you’d feel a little better...no?” When I’m with her, I’m eleven years old again, and we can behave like complete idiots and it’s fine. Jonesy is my never neverland, where I don’t ever have to grow up...and we all need friends like that. It keeps us young, and it keeps us sane! She knows me better than I know myself, and for some reason she still wants to be my friend. Wonders never cease!
Beck-lar is my newest “bestest”. I’d known of her for years, but had never socialised with her. When I became single, I suggested (during a random thread on a friend’s facebook status) that we should go out one Friday night. It was the start of a friendship that I will now treasure until I’m old and decrepit, and that’s because Beck-lar brings a whole heap of crazy to the party that I simply couldn’t live without now that I’m accustomed to it. She started out as my pint sized pub buddy, and now if she goes away for more than a weekend I find myself pining for her unusual brand of gaga. She never judges (and she’s seen me do some bad/destructive/down right silly things!). She is also the clumsiest, most forgetful person I know! Beck-lar is the only person I know, who whilst trying her very best to impress her hot neighbour will manage to fall down her front steps or reverse her car up kerbs, and still come up smelling like roses. She’s the only person I know who can misjudge the length of a bench seat and “over-scoot” the edge to find herself on her arse on the floor, and belly laugh at the photos (we all clambered to take whilst she was down) the next day. With her I can indulge my paranoid female psyche and she won’t think I need to be sectioned – mainly because she’s just as barmy! She makes me laugh to the point where I need to pee, and the joy of it is, that she has no idea how funny she really is. My life without Beck-lar would be quiet, boring and ridiculously grown up....there would also be a distinct lack of McDonalds and Malibu in my system.
The Bezzie Boy...he gets me. I’ve known him since I was eleven, and to be fair back then, he was probably one of my first crushes...now, he’s my closest male friend. I love every inch of him, warts and all because he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. I can be 100% honest with him about anything. He treats me like a princess, even when I behave like a tramp. He’s made me realise that I deserve so much more than the hand I’ve been dealt with. His heart is always in the right place, and yet he always manages to stuff things up for himself. A walking disaster, yet he’s an angel in disguise. He puts so little value on himself, and doesn’t realise how truly special he is. My fear is that one day I’ll lose him and he’ll be the only man to have truly seen me. If you read this bezzie boy, know this...I love you babe...I’m not in love with you (haha) but I do love you! X mwah X
And finally... The Couple...
I wouldn’t usually group friends together like this, because in truth these two people are so different in their personalities it’s untrue...but I have to, because quite frankly, I simply could not live in a world where these two did not exist together as a unit: My married friends. The sister I never had, and the more practical version of the older brother I do have. They have been my saviours during the hardest times I’ve ever had to deal with. I may or may not ever have children of my own, but The Couple have provided me with god children that I love as much as if they were my own. Always supporting, always showing their love and their loyalty. Their morals and principles are unquestionable. Their passion for those they care about, unfaltering. They are the people I want to be like when I grow up...and in times of need they’re always there to provide a cup of tea and a comedy trump (on cue) to make the world seem more bearable. I would not have survived over the last two years if it weren’t for these two amazing individuals. I bloody loves you!
So...these are my friends...and I will probably make frequent references to them in future blogs. They are my life, my soul and my inspiration...they’re also really f**king funny! :o)
Let’s take Princess... blonde, gorgeous, caring and loyal. She’s bright, articulate and has the sweetest soul imaginable. She is honest and true, and has always been there to support me. She tells me what I want to hear, and on the occasions where it’s required, what I need to hear. She is an inspiration to me, and quite honestly I sometimes loathe myself for never being able to be as good a friend to her as she is to me. She will remember birthdays and special events with cards and flowers. The sentiment is always genuine, and even when her own world is falling apart around her, she will put anything on hold in order to be there for each and every one of her friends....she also says some of the DUMBEST things! Blonde to the core, she is the (hilarious) epitome of the “blonde” stereotype. This is the girl who had me in stitches when I found out that whilst walking past a newspaper stand with a headline screaming “Bank Robbers Strike!” she questioned what on earth bank robbers needed to go on strike for? Better pay? Better holidays? It wasn’t so much the fact that she asked herself the question that amused me...but that even when she’d realised her faux pas, she felt she should share the blondeness with me. Princess is a girl who can laugh at herself, and I adore her with all of my heart.
Next we have Jonesy...my oldest friend, although why we ever became friends is still beyond me, bearing in mind that within hours of meeting her in the school playground I had (unintentionally) gouged a chunk out of her face with my nails. Both of us were new to the town, the school and the people in general, and so a friendship formed that has proved unbreakable. Jonesy is from the school of “tough love”. Some people would call her blunt...and I would kick their heads in for saying it as it makes it sound like a negative thing. She’s honest...in fact she’s incapable of being anything but honest, and that’s why she’s so dear to me. Jonesy is the type of girl that when I complain about the fact I’m not happy with my weight, and I feel like a lard arse, turns around and says “well, perhaps if you stopped eating so much CRAP you’d feel a little better...no?” When I’m with her, I’m eleven years old again, and we can behave like complete idiots and it’s fine. Jonesy is my never neverland, where I don’t ever have to grow up...and we all need friends like that. It keeps us young, and it keeps us sane! She knows me better than I know myself, and for some reason she still wants to be my friend. Wonders never cease!
Beck-lar is my newest “bestest”. I’d known of her for years, but had never socialised with her. When I became single, I suggested (during a random thread on a friend’s facebook status) that we should go out one Friday night. It was the start of a friendship that I will now treasure until I’m old and decrepit, and that’s because Beck-lar brings a whole heap of crazy to the party that I simply couldn’t live without now that I’m accustomed to it. She started out as my pint sized pub buddy, and now if she goes away for more than a weekend I find myself pining for her unusual brand of gaga. She never judges (and she’s seen me do some bad/destructive/down right silly things!). She is also the clumsiest, most forgetful person I know! Beck-lar is the only person I know, who whilst trying her very best to impress her hot neighbour will manage to fall down her front steps or reverse her car up kerbs, and still come up smelling like roses. She’s the only person I know who can misjudge the length of a bench seat and “over-scoot” the edge to find herself on her arse on the floor, and belly laugh at the photos (we all clambered to take whilst she was down) the next day. With her I can indulge my paranoid female psyche and she won’t think I need to be sectioned – mainly because she’s just as barmy! She makes me laugh to the point where I need to pee, and the joy of it is, that she has no idea how funny she really is. My life without Beck-lar would be quiet, boring and ridiculously grown up....there would also be a distinct lack of McDonalds and Malibu in my system.
The Bezzie Boy...he gets me. I’ve known him since I was eleven, and to be fair back then, he was probably one of my first crushes...now, he’s my closest male friend. I love every inch of him, warts and all because he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. I can be 100% honest with him about anything. He treats me like a princess, even when I behave like a tramp. He’s made me realise that I deserve so much more than the hand I’ve been dealt with. His heart is always in the right place, and yet he always manages to stuff things up for himself. A walking disaster, yet he’s an angel in disguise. He puts so little value on himself, and doesn’t realise how truly special he is. My fear is that one day I’ll lose him and he’ll be the only man to have truly seen me. If you read this bezzie boy, know this...I love you babe...I’m not in love with you (haha) but I do love you! X mwah X
And finally... The Couple...
I wouldn’t usually group friends together like this, because in truth these two people are so different in their personalities it’s untrue...but I have to, because quite frankly, I simply could not live in a world where these two did not exist together as a unit: My married friends. The sister I never had, and the more practical version of the older brother I do have. They have been my saviours during the hardest times I’ve ever had to deal with. I may or may not ever have children of my own, but The Couple have provided me with god children that I love as much as if they were my own. Always supporting, always showing their love and their loyalty. Their morals and principles are unquestionable. Their passion for those they care about, unfaltering. They are the people I want to be like when I grow up...and in times of need they’re always there to provide a cup of tea and a comedy trump (on cue) to make the world seem more bearable. I would not have survived over the last two years if it weren’t for these two amazing individuals. I bloody loves you!
So...these are my friends...and I will probably make frequent references to them in future blogs. They are my life, my soul and my inspiration...they’re also really f**king funny! :o)
Sunday 16 May 2010
How To Avoid The Overshare
I’m a firm believer in being yourself when it comes to dating and relationships. I’m aware that the rules state, early on in a relationship there is a certain etiquette which prohibits sharing some of your less attractive attributes, (No guy wants to know that before you arrived for your date with him, you spent a good half an hour pumicing the hard skin off your feet, in the unlikely event he may have to touch them at some point during the evening) however I don’t believe that you should change the characteristics and behaviours that make you “You” for the sake of keeping a man interested.
I mean where can it lead, if you can’t relax and be yourself? If you’re too scared to laugh at the waiter who tripped and fell on his face on the way to serve you, for fear of your date thinking you were an evil cow, how would you be able to integrate this sick part of your personality into the relationship later on? Furthermore, why would you want to hide this fundamental part of your make-up from someone that you potentially want to spend more time with? Surely honesty about every aspect of you and your life is the key to a successful relationship?
I have never kept any part of me a secret. The way I see it, you’ve got to know all of me to fall for me, and if, knowing everything, you still see a future with me – well that’s a pretty good foundation to start on. As it is though, I’m in a quandary...I’ve recently started texting a lovely guy, and I can see that we have a lot in common. We appear to have a similar outlook on life, and seem to understand each other’s lifestyles pretty well. I find him attractive and interesting, and he seems to feel the same way about me. So at what point is it safe for me to unleash the bombshell that is...my dirty little secret?
I’ve told him about pretty much everything in my life. He knows that I’m getting divorced, he knows about my crazy family. He’s heard lots about my mental friends and he’s not scared off by the fact I’ve openly admitted to loving the Twilight Saga. He’s aware that I have had a crush on Christopher Dean since I was very young, that if there’s a Karaoke bar within a five mile radius I will “sense” it and partake in drunken singing/wailing. I may even have also admitted that I snore terribly when I’m drunk or have a cold...But there’s one thing that I’ve been keeping from him. Something that all of my friends know about me....A part of my personality that would be impossible for me to hide should anything stimulate it. Something I’m hideously embarrassed about, but also something I have no control over whatsoever.
How do I tell him I find toilet humour funny?
I don’t even mean I find it amusing. I mean I find it laugh out loud, struggle to breathe, hideous piggy snort funny. I’m the kind of girl who, even though she knows she shouldn’t, find’s old people’s uncontrollable flatulence hilarious. The kind of girl who will sit in a card shop giggling like a crazy person at one of the Off The Ceiling greeting cards with the punch line “On feeling the damp sensation in his pants, Pete suddenly realised attempting to fart the Happy Birthday tune wasn’t such a great idea”. The kind of girl who gets more enjoyment from watching her seven year old godson and his father play the “pull my finger” game, than he actually does! Seriously people...It’s just not very ladylike! Now the thing is, when is it safe to admit this? I don’t think it’s something that I could hide should the occasion require me to, and how exactly am I supposed to break this kind of news to him?
Well look, I think you’re really lovely, we have everything in common, we get on like a house on fire, I’m very attracted to you, but can I just check one thing? Do you find trumps funny?
I have to be honest, I’m not great at picking up on social subtleties but even I know that would go down like a crap sandwich.
So what do I do? I thought about trying to suppress that particular part of my sense of humour, but I know me, and it’s unrealistic to assume that I’ll be able to keep that up! I also thought about throwing it straight out there as a “childish and proud” kind of statement, but figured that would just over exaggerate the issue. So finally I’ve settled on not volunteering this information, but trying not to be ashamed of it when I do get caught out. It may not be tomorrow, it may not be for a long while, but there’s no point giving him reasons to not want to get to know me better, right? It’s not being dishonest...It’s being economical with the truth, and in the meantime – well I guess I’ll just have to sit tight and hope that he ends up being as big a kid as I am!
I mean where can it lead, if you can’t relax and be yourself? If you’re too scared to laugh at the waiter who tripped and fell on his face on the way to serve you, for fear of your date thinking you were an evil cow, how would you be able to integrate this sick part of your personality into the relationship later on? Furthermore, why would you want to hide this fundamental part of your make-up from someone that you potentially want to spend more time with? Surely honesty about every aspect of you and your life is the key to a successful relationship?
I have never kept any part of me a secret. The way I see it, you’ve got to know all of me to fall for me, and if, knowing everything, you still see a future with me – well that’s a pretty good foundation to start on. As it is though, I’m in a quandary...I’ve recently started texting a lovely guy, and I can see that we have a lot in common. We appear to have a similar outlook on life, and seem to understand each other’s lifestyles pretty well. I find him attractive and interesting, and he seems to feel the same way about me. So at what point is it safe for me to unleash the bombshell that is...my dirty little secret?
I’ve told him about pretty much everything in my life. He knows that I’m getting divorced, he knows about my crazy family. He’s heard lots about my mental friends and he’s not scared off by the fact I’ve openly admitted to loving the Twilight Saga. He’s aware that I have had a crush on Christopher Dean since I was very young, that if there’s a Karaoke bar within a five mile radius I will “sense” it and partake in drunken singing/wailing. I may even have also admitted that I snore terribly when I’m drunk or have a cold...But there’s one thing that I’ve been keeping from him. Something that all of my friends know about me....A part of my personality that would be impossible for me to hide should anything stimulate it. Something I’m hideously embarrassed about, but also something I have no control over whatsoever.
How do I tell him I find toilet humour funny?
I don’t even mean I find it amusing. I mean I find it laugh out loud, struggle to breathe, hideous piggy snort funny. I’m the kind of girl who, even though she knows she shouldn’t, find’s old people’s uncontrollable flatulence hilarious. The kind of girl who will sit in a card shop giggling like a crazy person at one of the Off The Ceiling greeting cards with the punch line “On feeling the damp sensation in his pants, Pete suddenly realised attempting to fart the Happy Birthday tune wasn’t such a great idea”. The kind of girl who gets more enjoyment from watching her seven year old godson and his father play the “pull my finger” game, than he actually does! Seriously people...It’s just not very ladylike! Now the thing is, when is it safe to admit this? I don’t think it’s something that I could hide should the occasion require me to, and how exactly am I supposed to break this kind of news to him?
Well look, I think you’re really lovely, we have everything in common, we get on like a house on fire, I’m very attracted to you, but can I just check one thing? Do you find trumps funny?
I have to be honest, I’m not great at picking up on social subtleties but even I know that would go down like a crap sandwich.
So what do I do? I thought about trying to suppress that particular part of my sense of humour, but I know me, and it’s unrealistic to assume that I’ll be able to keep that up! I also thought about throwing it straight out there as a “childish and proud” kind of statement, but figured that would just over exaggerate the issue. So finally I’ve settled on not volunteering this information, but trying not to be ashamed of it when I do get caught out. It may not be tomorrow, it may not be for a long while, but there’s no point giving him reasons to not want to get to know me better, right? It’s not being dishonest...It’s being economical with the truth, and in the meantime – well I guess I’ll just have to sit tight and hope that he ends up being as big a kid as I am!
Wednesday 12 May 2010
All You Need Is Love
Sometimes it amazes me how important the people in my life are to me. I don’t know why it amazes me...I mean they’re in my life for a reason...but every now and then it hits me – I don’t know how I’d cope if I didn’t have them.
Take my mum...no please take her! (Joke)... How many times has she picked me up and plonked me back on the straight and narrow, when I’ve made enormous cock-ups, and stupid decisions? I’ve lost count. I mean, you’d think she’d be bored of it by now – and yet I can guarantee you that the next time I do it (which I will, I‘m sure) she’ll be right there, standing over me waiting to drag me back up onto my feet. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her.
We take the people in our lives for granted, especially when we’re young. I lost my dad two years ago, which is probably why I'm acutely aware of how important my mum is to me. People say that time heals. It doesn’t, you just get better at pushing it to the back of your mind. You never really shake that feeling that something’s missing though.
Obviously I never believed that I’d lose my dad aged 26. You think your parents are invincible. It’s not a crazy assumption to make given that they’ve managed to develop eyes in the back of their head, a sixth sense which gives them the ability to detect lies just by eyeballing a person for long enough, along with some kind of superhero radar that alerts them whenever their child is about to do something they shouldn’t...why wouldn’t they also hold the key to eternal life and good health?
I was lucky enough to have my dad walk me down the aisle though. Lots of girls aren’t that lucky. My marriage only lasted 6 years, but that memory will be with me forever. In fact I don’t think I’ll ever forget what he said to me as we drove to the church. I’d been waiting all morning for the: You-can-always-back-out-of-this-if-you’re-not-sure, speech and I already had my reply prepared... Typical dad though, he just turned to me and said; “don’t even think of chickening out of this, it’s cost me a bloody fortune, and I’m really looking forward to the disco.”
I’ve learned that you can never take anyone for granted, because you never know just how long you’re going to have with them. Live life passionately, and don’t be scared to tell your friends that you love them – and not just when you’re drunk in an “I loves you shooo musch *hic*” kind of way! Ignore people who say that the L word is overused. When it comes to your friends and family – how could it ever be used too much? I tell all of my friends that I love them, because it’s important for them to know. You should try it! Send a message right now to tell someone that you love them. The messages you get back will vary from the “Uh...great...thanks” to the “OMG I love you too!!”, but ultimately you know that whoever you’ve told, will have at least a second or two thinking “Awwww...how nice?” before they start taking the pee out of you for being a great big girly pants.
Take my mum...no please take her! (Joke)... How many times has she picked me up and plonked me back on the straight and narrow, when I’ve made enormous cock-ups, and stupid decisions? I’ve lost count. I mean, you’d think she’d be bored of it by now – and yet I can guarantee you that the next time I do it (which I will, I‘m sure) she’ll be right there, standing over me waiting to drag me back up onto my feet. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her.
We take the people in our lives for granted, especially when we’re young. I lost my dad two years ago, which is probably why I'm acutely aware of how important my mum is to me. People say that time heals. It doesn’t, you just get better at pushing it to the back of your mind. You never really shake that feeling that something’s missing though.
Obviously I never believed that I’d lose my dad aged 26. You think your parents are invincible. It’s not a crazy assumption to make given that they’ve managed to develop eyes in the back of their head, a sixth sense which gives them the ability to detect lies just by eyeballing a person for long enough, along with some kind of superhero radar that alerts them whenever their child is about to do something they shouldn’t...why wouldn’t they also hold the key to eternal life and good health?
I was lucky enough to have my dad walk me down the aisle though. Lots of girls aren’t that lucky. My marriage only lasted 6 years, but that memory will be with me forever. In fact I don’t think I’ll ever forget what he said to me as we drove to the church. I’d been waiting all morning for the: You-can-always-back-out-of-this-if-you’re-not-sure, speech and I already had my reply prepared... Typical dad though, he just turned to me and said; “don’t even think of chickening out of this, it’s cost me a bloody fortune, and I’m really looking forward to the disco.”
I’ve learned that you can never take anyone for granted, because you never know just how long you’re going to have with them. Live life passionately, and don’t be scared to tell your friends that you love them – and not just when you’re drunk in an “I loves you shooo musch *hic*” kind of way! Ignore people who say that the L word is overused. When it comes to your friends and family – how could it ever be used too much? I tell all of my friends that I love them, because it’s important for them to know. You should try it! Send a message right now to tell someone that you love them. The messages you get back will vary from the “Uh...great...thanks” to the “OMG I love you too!!”, but ultimately you know that whoever you’ve told, will have at least a second or two thinking “Awwww...how nice?” before they start taking the pee out of you for being a great big girly pants.
Sunday 9 May 2010
I'm Too Old For This Malarkey!
As I write this, I am sitting in my Layzee-boy recliner chair, with a cup of tea and a packet of hobnobs to the side of me. I’m half watching a documentary on the SAS Iranian Embassy siege that I recorded from the Discovery Channel, and half chatting to someone on a dating website that I’m signed up to (don’t ask). I’m also desperately trying to muster the energy from somewhere, to get up and take the dog for a walk.
I’m aware that this probably all sounds pretty dull, and it really is, but this peeps, is how I roll on a Sunday afternoon. Hilariously, as I chat to Fitbloke1980 I’m telling him all about my evening last night, and how I went to a 21st Birthday party. I’ve been completely truthful, and told him that me and my friends laughed, and joked and drank into the wee hours. We danced and sang and basically behaved like the gag reel from a particularly messy episode of Booze Britain and we had a great night. I am however neglecting to tell him, that as a result of last night’s frivolities, I feel like I’m dying.
The truth of the matter is that I’m getting too old for this. In order for me to function in any way at all today, I’ve had to consume a quarter pounder with cheese meal (large), a chocolate milkshake, and four cups of tea. I’ve had to take Ibuprofen and my body is in so much shock due to the way I abused my liver last night, that I have no control over my own body temp and despite it being the middle of May, I’m wearing a vest, top and a cardigan. I’m also still quite cold and so I’m contemplating dragging the duvet down from upstairs to keep the chill off.
I don’t know why I’m ashamed of this, and unwilling to volunteer this particular bit of information to Fitbloke1980. I mean he’s two years older than me. He must know how it feels to have your useless carcass let you down after a night out – surely?
Fitbloke1980 Member Profile: “Hobbies include going to the gym, triathlons and for funsies I like swimming the English channel at weekends. I’ve just completed the London Marathon and am looking forward to the New York Marathon in November”.
Or maybe not?
The fact of the matter is that none of us want to admit we can’t hack the party lifestyle anymore, and so we’ll continue to publicly enjoy our nights out, and we won’t complain about the blisters our high heels are giving us or the fact that you can’t get a decent glass of red in a nightclub nowadays. We’ll ignore the sensible thought process of “I’ll drive as it’ll be cheaper to not drink” and drink far too much Malibu and Coke at £4 a drink and then pay a further £12 for a taxi driver to pour us through our letterboxes at the end of the night.
In the comfort of our own homes however, we can forget that we’re trying to show the world our stamina, and happy go lucky attitude to life. We can curl up with a brew, a good book or some naff TV, and indulge our hangover...we deserve it...I mean what were we thinking? I for one am far happier when I’m sat on my arse doing nothing.
Message from Fitbloke1980: “I’m into water sports, snowboarding, abseiling and socialising in bars with friends. I am a keen skydiver and am looking for someone with common interests – is that you?”
Hmmm... not really me is it? Unless you count loading the dishwasher as a water sport, or using the shower curtain as a support for getting in and out of the bath (due to my dodgy knees) as abseiling?...
Message from Natz1982: “Gosh, me too – nothing better than feeling the wind in my hair as I hurtle towards the ground in a freefall manoeuvre. Let me know when you’ve next got a skydive planned and I’m there!”
...Oh well...a little white lie couldn’t hurt. He’s probably sat there with a mug of Horlicks whilst watching the Antiques Roadshow anyway!
I’m aware that this probably all sounds pretty dull, and it really is, but this peeps, is how I roll on a Sunday afternoon. Hilariously, as I chat to Fitbloke1980 I’m telling him all about my evening last night, and how I went to a 21st Birthday party. I’ve been completely truthful, and told him that me and my friends laughed, and joked and drank into the wee hours. We danced and sang and basically behaved like the gag reel from a particularly messy episode of Booze Britain and we had a great night. I am however neglecting to tell him, that as a result of last night’s frivolities, I feel like I’m dying.
The truth of the matter is that I’m getting too old for this. In order for me to function in any way at all today, I’ve had to consume a quarter pounder with cheese meal (large), a chocolate milkshake, and four cups of tea. I’ve had to take Ibuprofen and my body is in so much shock due to the way I abused my liver last night, that I have no control over my own body temp and despite it being the middle of May, I’m wearing a vest, top and a cardigan. I’m also still quite cold and so I’m contemplating dragging the duvet down from upstairs to keep the chill off.
I don’t know why I’m ashamed of this, and unwilling to volunteer this particular bit of information to Fitbloke1980. I mean he’s two years older than me. He must know how it feels to have your useless carcass let you down after a night out – surely?
Fitbloke1980 Member Profile: “Hobbies include going to the gym, triathlons and for funsies I like swimming the English channel at weekends. I’ve just completed the London Marathon and am looking forward to the New York Marathon in November”.
Or maybe not?
The fact of the matter is that none of us want to admit we can’t hack the party lifestyle anymore, and so we’ll continue to publicly enjoy our nights out, and we won’t complain about the blisters our high heels are giving us or the fact that you can’t get a decent glass of red in a nightclub nowadays. We’ll ignore the sensible thought process of “I’ll drive as it’ll be cheaper to not drink” and drink far too much Malibu and Coke at £4 a drink and then pay a further £12 for a taxi driver to pour us through our letterboxes at the end of the night.
In the comfort of our own homes however, we can forget that we’re trying to show the world our stamina, and happy go lucky attitude to life. We can curl up with a brew, a good book or some naff TV, and indulge our hangover...we deserve it...I mean what were we thinking? I for one am far happier when I’m sat on my arse doing nothing.
Message from Fitbloke1980: “I’m into water sports, snowboarding, abseiling and socialising in bars with friends. I am a keen skydiver and am looking for someone with common interests – is that you?”
Hmmm... not really me is it? Unless you count loading the dishwasher as a water sport, or using the shower curtain as a support for getting in and out of the bath (due to my dodgy knees) as abseiling?...
Message from Natz1982: “Gosh, me too – nothing better than feeling the wind in my hair as I hurtle towards the ground in a freefall manoeuvre. Let me know when you’ve next got a skydive planned and I’m there!”
...Oh well...a little white lie couldn’t hurt. He’s probably sat there with a mug of Horlicks whilst watching the Antiques Roadshow anyway!
Wednesday 5 May 2010
He Aint Heavy - He's My Brother
I’ve never wanted a sister. I’ve heard many of my friends say how much they’d have loved to have had a sister, but the idea couldn’t be less appealing to me. I have three brothers, and between you and me, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I’m an RAF baby..or “Pad Brat” as my squaddie friend likes to refer to us (I think RAF baby makes me sound far cuter though). My parents were both in the forces and I lived on RAF bases across the country for the first eleven years of my life. Like many kids whose parents are in the armed forces, I went to boarding school. Contrary to popular belief I didn’t find this to be anything Like Malory Towers, and in fact I never really settled into life as a boarder.
At my school, you had two types of boarder, “Weekly” which meant you boarded from Sunday night to Friday afternoon, and “Full” which meant you had one weekend home per half term, and then your standard school holidays. I was in the latter boarding category. I’ll always remember my parents discussing the school options with me. My mum was keen for me to attend some Ladies College, probably because it sounded like it would somehow mould her tomboy second born child into something with a little more grace and decorum. At the tender age of eight though, this idea terrified me.
I couldn’t go to an all girls school! I only knew about boys! In fact, at this rather influential stage in my life my only female role model was herself going through the process of starting her career in the RAF. She was rarely out of her green kit, and during non school hours, as I rode my bike around base I would regularly see her on guard duty with a semi automatic weapon at her side. Whilst this was always pretty cool to see, (if not a little scary as she bellowed at me and my brothers to “get back home or you won’t know what’s hit you!”...erm well actually mum it looks like it’s going to be a barrel of an SA80 assault rifle) it wasn’t exactly steering me towards the assumption that girls should naturally like skirts, pastels and florals.
What the hell did I know about girly girls, and Barbie dolls? I could challenge a boy to a woodlouse eating competition, or disable an obnoxious male with some pretty nifty WWF Smackdown wrestling manoeuvres and a blinding wedgie, but a teddy bears picnic and skipping in the playground?? I didn’t have a clue! So, despite not being the girly type, I did the most female thing I knew how to do, and threw an almighty titty-la-la. Toys weren’t just ejected from the pram...Oh no. NASA would have been proud of my launch capabilities. Luckily, my parents were responsive to my tantrum, so me and my two younger brothers were sent to the same school, in a small village called Cricklade, whilst my older brother due to his age, attended the sister college in Bath.
I can’t tell you how grateful I am that it worked out that way, because as a result the bond between me and my brothers, to this day remains unbreakable. I often think that had I been separated from them at that age, we would have become such different people, and whilst I know many people will say they’re close to their brothers and sisters, unless you’ve had to spend extended periods of time away from the family home, and away from your parents, you’ve never really had to work together as siblings.
We look after each other...sure, we annoy the crap out of each other, and we’ve all fallen out at one stage or another, but ultimately I know that my brothers are always looking out for me. They can be relied on to provide well timed comical insults, inflict Chinese burns, and generally ridicule me for every stupid thing I do. When the chips are down, I don’t need sisterly support, or a sympathetic female ear to bend...I need my brothers to laugh in my face at how much of a girl I'm being, and then give me a dead leg for being such a wuss. Only then, can everything be right in the world again.
I’m an RAF baby..or “Pad Brat” as my squaddie friend likes to refer to us (I think RAF baby makes me sound far cuter though). My parents were both in the forces and I lived on RAF bases across the country for the first eleven years of my life. Like many kids whose parents are in the armed forces, I went to boarding school. Contrary to popular belief I didn’t find this to be anything Like Malory Towers, and in fact I never really settled into life as a boarder.
At my school, you had two types of boarder, “Weekly” which meant you boarded from Sunday night to Friday afternoon, and “Full” which meant you had one weekend home per half term, and then your standard school holidays. I was in the latter boarding category. I’ll always remember my parents discussing the school options with me. My mum was keen for me to attend some Ladies College, probably because it sounded like it would somehow mould her tomboy second born child into something with a little more grace and decorum. At the tender age of eight though, this idea terrified me.
I couldn’t go to an all girls school! I only knew about boys! In fact, at this rather influential stage in my life my only female role model was herself going through the process of starting her career in the RAF. She was rarely out of her green kit, and during non school hours, as I rode my bike around base I would regularly see her on guard duty with a semi automatic weapon at her side. Whilst this was always pretty cool to see, (if not a little scary as she bellowed at me and my brothers to “get back home or you won’t know what’s hit you!”...erm well actually mum it looks like it’s going to be a barrel of an SA80 assault rifle) it wasn’t exactly steering me towards the assumption that girls should naturally like skirts, pastels and florals.
What the hell did I know about girly girls, and Barbie dolls? I could challenge a boy to a woodlouse eating competition, or disable an obnoxious male with some pretty nifty WWF Smackdown wrestling manoeuvres and a blinding wedgie, but a teddy bears picnic and skipping in the playground?? I didn’t have a clue! So, despite not being the girly type, I did the most female thing I knew how to do, and threw an almighty titty-la-la. Toys weren’t just ejected from the pram...Oh no. NASA would have been proud of my launch capabilities. Luckily, my parents were responsive to my tantrum, so me and my two younger brothers were sent to the same school, in a small village called Cricklade, whilst my older brother due to his age, attended the sister college in Bath.
I can’t tell you how grateful I am that it worked out that way, because as a result the bond between me and my brothers, to this day remains unbreakable. I often think that had I been separated from them at that age, we would have become such different people, and whilst I know many people will say they’re close to their brothers and sisters, unless you’ve had to spend extended periods of time away from the family home, and away from your parents, you’ve never really had to work together as siblings.
We look after each other...sure, we annoy the crap out of each other, and we’ve all fallen out at one stage or another, but ultimately I know that my brothers are always looking out for me. They can be relied on to provide well timed comical insults, inflict Chinese burns, and generally ridicule me for every stupid thing I do. When the chips are down, I don’t need sisterly support, or a sympathetic female ear to bend...I need my brothers to laugh in my face at how much of a girl I'm being, and then give me a dead leg for being such a wuss. Only then, can everything be right in the world again.
Tuesday 4 May 2010
That's Sweet...But I'd Like A Man My Own Age Please.
On my lunch break today I had a few errands to run. One of which was getting some links removed from my new watch. There’s a place just round the corner from work, and the middle aged Scotsman working in there was more than happy to deal with my request.
When he asked me how many links I needed removing, I told him three, to which he exclaimed “My, what wee dainty wrists you have!” I resisted the urge to follow this up with “all the better to wear watches with grandma” and simply agreed, adding that it was a shame the rest of me hadn’t followed suit.
Now I should know better than to “think” out loud like this. People either think you’re a bitter chubby girl (you know the sort, with an annoying chip on her shoulder...that she if she could just reach it, would make a satisfying mid morning snack) or they think you’re fishing for compliments. I’m neither. You know how people say, inside every fat person there’s a skinny person screaming to get out? They’re right...but it’s usually because we’ve just eaten one.
I’m aware that I’m on the plump side, but I’m not disgusted with myself, and I know that I’m not completely unfortunate looking, so I need neither false compliments, nor the judgement that I’m chunky because I have low self esteem.
So why do I make these comments? Well I think it’s because I have the complete opposite form of body dysmorphia to anorexics. They look at themselves and see huge people, when in fact they’re literally just skin and bones. I look in the mirror and see a normal sized girl. The comments I make are to remind myself that despite what I see, I am in fact chunkier than I realise, and they’re mainly to spare me the bumps and bruises I gain from misjudging the proximity of my arse to table corners and door frames as a result of forgetting that it is in fact bigger than I think it is. It's a sort of, internal reality check mechanism.
Unfortunately making this comment within earshot of Mr McFixawatch opened the door to what was, quite frankly, one of the most awkward conversations of my life to date. Just as I’d said it, the shop suddenly filled very quickly with customers wanting keys cut and shoes re-heeled. Mr McFixawatch, oblivious to the gathering crowd proceeded to tell me in his booming old man voice;
“Och no lassy! Don’t ye go wishing away those wonderful curves ye got there! Not all of us are looking for a wee beanpole in the bedroom. Nay, some of us want a buxom lass...In fact - In the 16th century you’d have been considered fashionable ye would!”
Now quite frankly, in my mind, all a man of his age should want in the bedroom is a copy of Readers Digest, a mug of Horlicks and a glass on the bedside table for his false teeth...and whilst I’m convinced he was old enough to remember the 16th Century, I certainly don’t remember asking him for his opinion.
If the ground could have opened up and swallowed me I’d have been eternally grateful...But he was right about one thing. Not all men are looking for skinny girls. It seems middle aged watch repairers will give anything a go...as long as it’s got dainty wrists.
When he asked me how many links I needed removing, I told him three, to which he exclaimed “My, what wee dainty wrists you have!” I resisted the urge to follow this up with “all the better to wear watches with grandma” and simply agreed, adding that it was a shame the rest of me hadn’t followed suit.
Now I should know better than to “think” out loud like this. People either think you’re a bitter chubby girl (you know the sort, with an annoying chip on her shoulder...that she if she could just reach it, would make a satisfying mid morning snack) or they think you’re fishing for compliments. I’m neither. You know how people say, inside every fat person there’s a skinny person screaming to get out? They’re right...but it’s usually because we’ve just eaten one.
I’m aware that I’m on the plump side, but I’m not disgusted with myself, and I know that I’m not completely unfortunate looking, so I need neither false compliments, nor the judgement that I’m chunky because I have low self esteem.
So why do I make these comments? Well I think it’s because I have the complete opposite form of body dysmorphia to anorexics. They look at themselves and see huge people, when in fact they’re literally just skin and bones. I look in the mirror and see a normal sized girl. The comments I make are to remind myself that despite what I see, I am in fact chunkier than I realise, and they’re mainly to spare me the bumps and bruises I gain from misjudging the proximity of my arse to table corners and door frames as a result of forgetting that it is in fact bigger than I think it is. It's a sort of, internal reality check mechanism.
Unfortunately making this comment within earshot of Mr McFixawatch opened the door to what was, quite frankly, one of the most awkward conversations of my life to date. Just as I’d said it, the shop suddenly filled very quickly with customers wanting keys cut and shoes re-heeled. Mr McFixawatch, oblivious to the gathering crowd proceeded to tell me in his booming old man voice;
“Och no lassy! Don’t ye go wishing away those wonderful curves ye got there! Not all of us are looking for a wee beanpole in the bedroom. Nay, some of us want a buxom lass...In fact - In the 16th century you’d have been considered fashionable ye would!”
Now quite frankly, in my mind, all a man of his age should want in the bedroom is a copy of Readers Digest, a mug of Horlicks and a glass on the bedside table for his false teeth...and whilst I’m convinced he was old enough to remember the 16th Century, I certainly don’t remember asking him for his opinion.
If the ground could have opened up and swallowed me I’d have been eternally grateful...But he was right about one thing. Not all men are looking for skinny girls. It seems middle aged watch repairers will give anything a go...as long as it’s got dainty wrists.
Exercise - The Root Of All Evil
I’m trying to get fit. Unfortunately I’m failing miserably.
I don’t really enjoy exercise. I’m not convinced that anyone does. Exercise is something you do to get fit, and if you’re doing it, it’s because you’re unfit, therefore, exercise is most certainly alien to you, making it uncomfortable, painful and often a little humiliating. Those people who are already fit partake in “activities”. (This could be mistaken for exercise by those of us who are new to a healthy lifestyle, because it involves moving quickly and invariably getting out of breath). The thing is, for these “fit” people, running at 5:30am on a cold December morning before going to work, or playing squash after an 8 hour day at the office, is as enjoyable as an Eastenders omnibus and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Cookie Dough is to us non-fit freaks. They get a kick out of it because it’s something they enjoy doing with their time. They’re not doing it to keep fit, they’re doing it because they like it!! (Weird, I know)
I was inspired to start jogging by Mel Gibson...well actually, some clever Hollywood writer who came up with the Nike ad campaign presentation spiel that his character delivers in the film What Women Want:
"...you can call on the road, whenever you feel like it, whether it has been a day, or even a couple of hours since your last date. The only thing the road cares about is that you pay it a visit once in a while. Nike, no games, just sports."
Well, I was sold on the idea of running - although I’ve yet to buy any Nike trainers. I was primed and ready to go. No stopping me. Oh yes! I’d seen those loony joggers running at stupid-o-clock every weekday morning with their dogs and high-vis vests (to be fair I’d contemplated mowing a few of them down with my car, for being so smug and “in shape”) and by the power of Greyskull I was going to be one of them! So, I donned my beaten up trainers, my comfy joggers, for the safety of myself and anyone around me, my underused and almost in brand new condition sports bra, put the dog on his lead, and headed out.
Right, well first off...where the hell do these joggers get dogs that are happy to run alongside them in an obedient fashion? Are they real dogs or just dogs on wheels like “Rowdy” from Scrubs? If I wasn’t being pulled zig-zag style across the park by my little bruiser of a pooch, I was being dragged to a sudden halt when the urge to pee against every lamp post, bush and tree stopped him in his tracks. Plus, has anyone actually ever tried jogging on the spot whilst trying to poop-scoop? Hmm? Have they?
Secondly...where do these loony’s get their confidence? At what stage can you consider yourself an actual jogger and not feel like a fraud for being out there and trying to get fit? I couldn’t fake my jogger status. It couldn’t have been clearer that this was my first attempt at running outside of a gym if I’d worn a flashing neon sign stating “LEARNER JOGGER – KEEP YOUR DISTANCE: Sudden Breaking Down, Followed By Sobs of Frustration, Humiliation and Small Asthma Attacks”
I’ve done a few of these runs now, and I honestly don’t think I can imagine a day when I don’t go out there and worry that I look like a complete prat when I’m running. On the plus side though, the humiliation does give you an incentive to get home when all you really want to do is lie down in the middle of the path and die a hideous, sweaty, raspy, wheezy undignified death.
Well I guess the answer to my question is that I’ll only find out if I stick at it...then maybe I’ll wake up one day and start being concerned about improving my time rather than just being concerned that I look like a complete plank. But... if you ever see me in a high-vis vest, just shoot me will you? As it means I’ve got far too big for my boots!
I don’t really enjoy exercise. I’m not convinced that anyone does. Exercise is something you do to get fit, and if you’re doing it, it’s because you’re unfit, therefore, exercise is most certainly alien to you, making it uncomfortable, painful and often a little humiliating. Those people who are already fit partake in “activities”. (This could be mistaken for exercise by those of us who are new to a healthy lifestyle, because it involves moving quickly and invariably getting out of breath). The thing is, for these “fit” people, running at 5:30am on a cold December morning before going to work, or playing squash after an 8 hour day at the office, is as enjoyable as an Eastenders omnibus and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Cookie Dough is to us non-fit freaks. They get a kick out of it because it’s something they enjoy doing with their time. They’re not doing it to keep fit, they’re doing it because they like it!! (Weird, I know)
I was inspired to start jogging by Mel Gibson...well actually, some clever Hollywood writer who came up with the Nike ad campaign presentation spiel that his character delivers in the film What Women Want:
"...you can call on the road, whenever you feel like it, whether it has been a day, or even a couple of hours since your last date. The only thing the road cares about is that you pay it a visit once in a while. Nike, no games, just sports."
Well, I was sold on the idea of running - although I’ve yet to buy any Nike trainers. I was primed and ready to go. No stopping me. Oh yes! I’d seen those loony joggers running at stupid-o-clock every weekday morning with their dogs and high-vis vests (to be fair I’d contemplated mowing a few of them down with my car, for being so smug and “in shape”) and by the power of Greyskull I was going to be one of them! So, I donned my beaten up trainers, my comfy joggers, for the safety of myself and anyone around me, my underused and almost in brand new condition sports bra, put the dog on his lead, and headed out.
Right, well first off...where the hell do these joggers get dogs that are happy to run alongside them in an obedient fashion? Are they real dogs or just dogs on wheels like “Rowdy” from Scrubs? If I wasn’t being pulled zig-zag style across the park by my little bruiser of a pooch, I was being dragged to a sudden halt when the urge to pee against every lamp post, bush and tree stopped him in his tracks. Plus, has anyone actually ever tried jogging on the spot whilst trying to poop-scoop? Hmm? Have they?
Secondly...where do these loony’s get their confidence? At what stage can you consider yourself an actual jogger and not feel like a fraud for being out there and trying to get fit? I couldn’t fake my jogger status. It couldn’t have been clearer that this was my first attempt at running outside of a gym if I’d worn a flashing neon sign stating “LEARNER JOGGER – KEEP YOUR DISTANCE: Sudden Breaking Down, Followed By Sobs of Frustration, Humiliation and Small Asthma Attacks”
I’ve done a few of these runs now, and I honestly don’t think I can imagine a day when I don’t go out there and worry that I look like a complete prat when I’m running. On the plus side though, the humiliation does give you an incentive to get home when all you really want to do is lie down in the middle of the path and die a hideous, sweaty, raspy, wheezy undignified death.
Well I guess the answer to my question is that I’ll only find out if I stick at it...then maybe I’ll wake up one day and start being concerned about improving my time rather than just being concerned that I look like a complete plank. But... if you ever see me in a high-vis vest, just shoot me will you? As it means I’ve got far too big for my boots!
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