Sunday, 14 December 2008

I have a confession...

And I feel like I need to come clean with it - like if I own up to it, it means that I've somehow made the first step towards dealing with this filthy habit.

When watching slow-motion re -runs of races, my eye is automatically 'drawn'... ahem. To...those areas that should be better concealed and better kept in check than they are.


We were just watching the BBC's Sporting Personality of the Year, and they were showing re-runs of the Usain Bolt races from the Olympics. And yes, I CAN appreciate how truly amazing his races were. All I'm saying, is I have a renowned attention to detail. My eyes are no respecter of areas. If something's a-shakin', I'm a-lookin'. And my, my. I was a-lookin'.


And the thing is - I can't be alone in this 'attention to detail.' Be honest.. I can't be the only one that notices.. ?


If I am, let me know, so I can go to self-help groups and get over this delightful condition.

Wednesday, 10 December 2008

Atomic.... indeed.

Christmas Parties. One thing I don't really miss now that I'm a 'stay-at-home-chump'. So you can imagine how I felt when Robbie asked me to go to his work's night out. It was being held at our National football stadium - Hampden. And it was themed. Rock Stars. After a lot of conjoling on his part, I said I would go. I mean - how bad could it be? A big venue, everybody dressed up, a 3 course meal (this was the decider)...



So what to dress up as? ZZ Top? Could cover my chins with a huge beard. Cyndi Lauper? Could cover my wrinkles under a slap of yellow eyeshadow. Mama Cass? Could just dress up in my usual garb. Basically, in under-enthusiastic manner, I was looking for an idea that wouldn't require a tremendous amount of effort on my part.




I chose to be Blondie. Cos i'm so like her. Pfffttt. Actually, cos i figured all I needed was ablonde wig and a bin liner. Think about her Atomic video.. blonde and bin bag. Magic. Effort= minimal.




Robbie was going as one of the Village People. The cop. The rest of the guys in his team were going to make up the five piece. Now I wouldn't have necessarily deemed the Village People as 'Rock Stars', but that's what they were dressing up as. And yes, it has crossed my mind that Robbie and his mates WERE just looking for an excuse to be gay for a day.


We were geting dressed up ready to go out, my mum and dad had come round to babysit, the make up was applied and the wig was on (and robbie had his pistol in place and gay glasses on) when he informed me that "fancy dress was optional".


"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTT??????????????????????"


And as it turned out, this proved blatantly obvious when we turned up at the function. We rolled up in our 7 seater to the stadium, and there was a crowd of folk outside dressed to the nines in all their finery. All their black tie finery. Of course, we stuck out like a sore thumb. A dirty big open sore of a mangled bent up sore thumb.


And as we made our way to our table, you know - the table that was right at the back of the room, I figured that out of about 500 folk there that night, we were 2 out of a total of about 20 people that had got dressed up. Though the rest of the Village People were included in that number, so you really get the idea of how few people really had decided to throw on a wig and camp it up for the night.


It ended up being not so bad, cos folk were consuming free alcohol at the rate of knots, so we ended up not looking so bad after all. But still. Given the choice of going out in bin liner or a little black dress....

Friday, 28 November 2008

A complaint.


As a consumer of many fine and expensive face creams, I have a complaint to make. They don't seem to be doing the job. I have used all those creams that promise to 'get rid of the fine lines' and 'reduce deep set wrinkles'. I have even used cheap face creams, and baby cream, and baby bottom cream. I've even gone as far as to use the special type of cream that is meant for bottys only....you know, the stuff that comes with an applicator.. ahem. Don't worry though - I used it when the tube was brand new and hadn't been used for any other 'area' - only to slap on my wizened old face. I said face.


So you would imagine I'd be a picture of youthful beauty. On a good day, I think I look not too bad, actually. Well, if you're standing at least 5 feet away from me, I look pretty good.


Tell me why then, my 2 year old daughter keeps asking about the "stripes" I have on my face.


Does anyone know the number of David Gest's plastic surgeon? I think it's the only way.

Wednesday, 26 November 2008

I found hidden treasure today.

...In the form of my original wedding ring. (Eh... one wedding, one man - but I have two rings..) I had 'misplaced' my wedding ring a couple of years ago.
And by misplaced, I mean stored away. And by stored away, I mean hidden from possible thieves. And by hidden away, I mean flung in to a cup at the back of the cups cupboard. Well - no thief worth his stripey top and black eye strip would ever look there, right!?


So, I had decided to clear out some cups from my cupboard. I ended up throwing out about 5 sippy cups with no lids, a couple a chipped glasses (that should you have drank from them, you would have ended up with a frayed face) and a few manky straws from McDonalds. I don't actually know why they were in there... Probably from one of those times where I thought they'd come in useful for something. Only come to realise that they were good for no other reason than to line my bin.


And there, at the back of the cupboard, in one of my mum's soup bowls (I can't even explain why that was in there... I'm pretty sure if I were to empty my cupboards of every dish belonging to my Mum, I would have nothing left.) was my wedding ring.


When Robbie and I got engaged, I didn't get an engagement ring. And Robbie, if you're reading this, I'm not complaining, I'm stating a fact. And you can't argue with that last statement, can you?

Anyway - I wasn't bothered about getting a dirty big 1 carat diamond, brilliant cut, raised by 4 prongs on a thin band of 18k gold, offset with a wedding band that would sport an inscription on the inside that would tell of our wedding date and bear our names. I hadn't even thought of the kind of ring I would like to have. ;) We were sensible and decided to use what money we (Robbie) had and put a deposit on our first home.


Though having said that, one time I thought Robbie had indeed gone and bought me a diamond. He had phoned me to tell me that he'd left a special gift for me on my bed. He was calling as he was going back to his flat in Edinburgh (I was living in Glasgow). He said that it was a special gift, that I had to go and see straight away. My mind was racing, thinking, surely if this is a ring, he should be there, and he should be on one knee, holding the ring aloft and watching my face light up as I took in the beauty of this one carat spectacle. I asked him to come back and give me the gift personally... I didn't want this moment not to be shared by both of us.


He came back. I had been waiting downstairs til he came back, so we could see the 'gift' (ring... right?) together. We went upstairs and there on my bed was a big box. Much too big to be a ring box. It was a VCR box. I thought it was a ploy - he's hidden the ring box in the big VCR box to stump me. He's such a kidder....


Well - he wasn't the kidder I had hoped. It was indeed a VCR. Robbie was really excited to tell me that he'd bought us an ex-rental VCR for our future home together. That's just what I'd wanted. There's nothing like a second hand piece of oversized out of date machinery that says "I love you".


In fact, there was another time when I thought he was going to give me a ring. (I don't know why I kept harbouring these notions - we had decided I wasn't going to get a sparkler, and I really was ok with that - I'm glad we used the money for our wee flat etc, but still... I'm girl after all!) Anyway... it was when I came back from the States where I was an EFY counsellor for the summer. We had talked to each other on the phone, and I kind of guessed that he was going to be there at the airport to greet me, and I reckoned that it would be there that he would kneel down in front of the whole airport and whip out a huge beast of a diamond and propose.


He did propose. He brought me a huge bouquet of flowers (that were slightly wilted cos he'd come to the airport a day early by mistake) and as we were crossing the car park of Glasgow Airport, he shouted (it was wet and windy) over to me


R:"did you read the card on your flowers?"


Me: "No... I think the wind blew it away"


R: "oh... em...."


Me:(thinking - there must be something important in that card...)" I'll go and find it! Hold on!"


R: "*muffle muffle*" (he was too far away now to hear him cos i was scurrying away looking for this blinkin' card.


I found the card. It was under the wheel of a car. I read it. It said "I love you with all of my heart. Will you marry me, please?"


Awww... I've got a wee tear in my eye just thinking about it.


Anyway... the point of the post. I found my wedding ring today. It matches Robbie's. We bought them together a few weeks before we got married. I'm glad I found it, cos I was starting to worry that I'd never see it again.


And FYI... I'm not bothered about not having a huge nugget of bling on my finger. I'm just thankful I had a VCR that allowed me to watch some good films...

Tuesday, 18 November 2008

I'm looking for the light...

...at the end of the tunnel. But I seem to be in one heck of a long tunnel!! I mean... seriously - who else wants to be sick in this house?! Don't my family know that I have NO patience, NO bedside manner, NO compassion!?!??!

If you've been wondering why my posts have been somewhat lacking recently (I know you've all been lying awake at night thinking about it. Wondering how you can go on without a regular instalment of my bleating and moaning about nothing in particular...) it's been because there's been too many people in my wee family being sick. I told you about Eilidh. And I thought I was out of the woods. Of course, it has to do the rounds. My washing machine has been on double time. My place is generating a mahoosive carbon footprint. Even though I'm washing everything on a 30 degree wash, like a good girl. OK - I lied - a 40 degree wash. 30 degrees just doesn't cut it. And yes, I'm still using double the amount of fabric softener, so my footprint's going way up on that front too. Whatever - my washing smells good.

Anyway. Long story short - lots of sickness, lots of washing, lots of needy people, not a lot of time to tell you all about it, not a lot of you would want to hear about it.

A couple of thoughts...

  • The gym (since I told you about it in my last post). I'm going... am enjoying making myself suffer. What's with that? Anyway.. I've realised that this haircut of mine does NOT look good when wringing with sweat. Well - whose hair does? But mine almost recoils as though repelled by my huge red sweaty face. Recoils in to some kind of Lego helmet hair piece. So, picture me with a face as big as a bin lid with a tiny but bulbous helmet do sat on top.... wringing in sweat. I really am a visual treat (and by the time I'm finished, I'm a treat for the nose too..;))

  • Why is it that right now, I'm TOTALLY in love with my bed. I mean, I love it at the best of times, but right now I daydream about it. I always convince myself that as soon as the kids are in their beds, I'll go to mine. But i never seem to do it. I mean, it's 23.12 right now, and I'm still tapping away on this....

  • You can totally tell that the Christmas season is just round the corner. You know how I know? Well... apart from all the decorations going up everywhere, and being reminded all the time... I know because people are starting to be horrible to one another. We were at a shopping centre on Saturday, and already, the car park is overcrowded and people shout and swear at one another and argue about who was waiting longest for a space and "do you think I'm sat here waiting for a space for the good of my health?" People are rude in shops and all manners seem to go out the window. Everybody just seems to be in a foul mood this time of year... when in actual fact, it's meant to be the opposite. Naturally, I go along with the crowd and am in a foul mood about the onset of Christmas. That's because I'm a Scrooge and can't be doing with it. I enjoy Christmas Day, because it means that the lead up to it is over. Hehehe... I'm such a miserable sod. Truly. I'm not ashamed.

  • I think I have an addiction to potatoes. I know it's a rubbish addiction to have, but it's still a real addiction. Every single day I have to have a dirty big portion of... just potatoes. I'm such a freak. I keep having to go up to Asda to feed my addiction... and my face. Though I console myself that they're low in points (little bit of the ol' Weight Watchers chat for you there...) and so graze on them some more...

Anyway.. Random post. Random thoughts. How are all of you?!

Thursday, 13 November 2008

Richard Simmons? My new guru.


Last week, I went against everything I believe in. I joined a gym. I was thinking about Richard Simmons and how much we look alike in our coiffed hairdos, so I figured the next logical step would be to try and get fit so that I can wear the shiny satine shorts and muscle back t-shirts that he sports so well. Oh... and the fact that Fat Fighters aka Weight Watchers alone just isn't cutting it anymore. Sure, the lard is coming off.... just not fast enough for my liking. So - the gym..


My induction was on Monday night. If I'm honest, I was really looking forward to it. I can't remember why...


Anyway. 10 minutes before I was meant to leave, I heaved my sorry patoot off the couch (my one true nemesis) and went to get changed in to the usual gym type garb. Only to find that I didn't actually have anything suitable. I don't know why, but I'd assumed I'd have stuff to wear. I found an old pair of jogging bottoms that I'd bought a few years ago (and quite a few stones ago) and they were far too big and far too short. I'm sure the proportions of these trousers would've been best suited to an extremely rotund oompa loompa. I figured they'd need to do, as the only other option was to wear shorts. And to be honest, the world will never be ready to see my legs. Especially cos I shaved them 2 days before, so they were dangerously stubbly, and the last time they saw sun was 1986.


So, I rocked up to the gym, white ankles showing, and bristles ... well, bristling. But nothing was going to stop me. This was a step that had to be made and no amount of embarrassing wardrobe malfunctions was going to stop me.
Of course, I had to have my induction at a peak time. Folk were everywhere, pumping iron, shedding pounds and there were no other dodgy jogging bottoms in sight.
The guy showed me round and gave me a plan of action. And action being the word! I think he's trying to kill me. But I was too proud to say it! So I gave it what for on that treadmill... And nearly died after 2 minutes.
So - I'm bearing all here. I'm sharing my gym secret, cos now it feels like cos I've told you all, I'll feel somewhat required to go, in case you check up on me. Not that I want you to check in on me. You probably won't get an answer anyway... I'll be lying unconscious somewhere at the side of a treadmill with my trousers up round my thighs... shouting on the revered name of Richard Simmons to help me in my hour of need.

Thursday, 6 November 2008

If you're gonna spew... spew in to this.


The other day, I had read a post on Jen's blog. In it, she made mention of how her son had been sick and was glad that he was old enough to be able to barf in the toilet, and that all she needed to do was flush. I thought to myself that it must be great to be able to do that.





Little did I know that I would be thinking REALLY. HOW GOOD WOULD IT BE?






Eilidh was complaining of having a sore tummy at bed time. But me not being a true Campbell (in that I was merely grafted in to the tree, and therefore not a hypochondriac like both the patriarch of our family and his little offspring) I thought I was being wise to her ploy of delaying getting in to bed. (She's wily that way.) I dismissed her moans and said that her tummy was sore cos she was tired.






I know that sounds like a crappy excuse, but you say it with enough authority, kids believe it and you sound like you know what you're talking about.






So I packed her off to bed and all was quiet until about 10.30... All I'm going to say was that she had erupted... all over her bedspread (that was quite frankly, too expensive to be barfed on. I don't even like the kids using them at night.... they're there purely for decoration, and I'm not a fan of having them used to keep their little bodies warm at night. If they're cold at night, they should have thought about taking a hot water bottle to bed.)






So, I pulled her out of bed and sat her in the bath. While I cleaned the bedspread. The rigmarole of cleaning, scrubbing, holding hair back, holding my breath, all took place a couple of times throughout the night.






I know that I'm a mother, and that these times are part of the deal. But I don't like it. I want to strike when moments like this occur. I love my babies. I feel bad for them when they're not well. But I'd prefer clean illnesses.






Anyway. I think It was just a 24 hour bug, cos by the morning, she seemed OK. I kept her off school, just in case she went in and started blowing chunks in the dinner hall.






She was lying on the couch most of the day with her cosy blanket (one that could be barfed on without me having a meltdown), bossing Hannah around, and reminding me of how she was sick the night before.






But my minuscule amount of sympathy and bedside manner (that really goes against the grain - I mean, when we were ill when I was young, you had to get on with it. And as soon as you hadn't barfed in like 2 hours, you were packed off to school again. There was no sympathy. And we all learned to just get on with it. And so it's my duty to carry on this family tradition..) was running on low by 2 o'clock. And it had certainly run out when, lying regally on the couch and lifting her hand and gesturing toward the patio door, she uttered this statement






"Mummy... I think I will feel better if you pick me some flowers from the garden"






If I were a cartoon character, this is where my face would morph in to a donkey and the word ASS would appear above my long ears.




Anyway. After that, the telly was turned off and the blanket put away. I'm no mug.





And if you're all thinking that I'm heartless, you're probably right. I feel no shame.

Tuesday, 4 November 2008

ASDA - Annoyance, Screaming kids, Desperate parenting, Aaaaggh

Remember the days when you could go to ASDA or any shop for that matter, and you were able to go in, peruse the goods on sale at leisure, and take time to compare prices, brands, and eye up the produce boy?

Yeah... well, I barely remember those days. For now I have 3 distractions that make the above impossible. Well, all apart from the produce boy bit... I am a girl, after all.

It all starts before we've even got in to the shop. This 'super'store is doing away with shopping trolleys that have two seats. Apparently most families now only require one seat. So already, I'm jipped cos I don't conform enough to have my babies taken care of. Though a trip round the shops makes me realise why most people only have one or two kids.

And then once we're inside, there seems to be some kind of message sent out to all children (kind of like a high pitched frequency that only children's ears can hear) that makes them act wild, need the loo every five minutes, be demanding of sweets, whine and moan incessantly and act like little houdini's.

And why above all this, is my absolute NEED to save face the most frustrating thing of all? Why do I feel like I have to show everybody that I can handle these three little monsters? Why do I feel like I have to paint a picture of me being the most fabulous parent in the world, who has three well trained chimps/kids who obey my every command and who do nothing but smile sweetly at passers by and who don't drool and snot over all the goods before they're scanned? In my psychotic head, everyone is judging me and the number of lollipops I carry in my Trolley Dolly and the whispered threats of smacked bots and the over use of the evil eye of judgement.

For example, as we were waiting in line at the checkout (we were waiting for the wee wummin to stop talking to her friend) Hannah and Eilidh had had enough. Both of them were crying. But, I chose to ignore them. Everything else had been tried. Lollies, promises of a nice dinner when we got home, threats of a horrible dinner when we got home (more likely) almost pleading with them to stop their nonsense.... And it's the woman behind me that ends up almost pushing me over the edge. She takes out her manky dirty keys and starts jangling them in front of Hannah's face. Of course, it incenses her and the crying gets louder... as do the bunch of keys. I appreciate that she was trying to help. But I was ready to take those manky dirty keys and lob them straight up the pet aisle (cos it stinks to high heaven of cheap dog food). Does she not think that I have tried everything to make these kids quiet? No - here she comes with her miracle keys. One jangle and calm is restored. And why would a 2 year old be interested in keys anyway!? No - she has judged me and thought to herself - "hold up, this bird can't look after her kids properly. Doesn't she know they need something to play with? Something fun like a set of manky dirty keys?" And it's these unspoken judgements that I can't bear.

Well. There is no point to this post. I'm not concluding with a brainwave of how better to deal with this situation in the future. Just do the shopping at night I suppose... when the produce boy finishes his shift ;)

Monday, 3 November 2008

A week of livin' la vida loca.

OK - so I'm not like the bird in Ricky Martin's video of the same name.. all shaking and groovin... But I have been livin' la vida loca over this last week. Or so it feels like. That's why the posts have been thin on the ground - OK... non-existent.


It's been non stop partying for me for the past couple of nights. So much so, that today I was feeling quite ill. I think it was just over tiredness. You can really overdo it when you're a party animal such as myself.


Pfffft. OK - so my idea of a party animal may not be the same as somebody else's. But to me, who is virtually housebound due to having 3 lovely kids, ANY night out feels like I'm on a week's bender.


My mum had phoned on Friday night and offered to come and babysit so that Rob and I could go out. What do you do when someone offers to come and watch the kids just out of the blue (apart from run naked round the street shouting hallelujah)? I was in a daze. What would we do - where would we go? It was like I was about to short circuit because there were all of a sudden so many possibilities. So many options, so many dreams to realise, so many things to be able to go and do without the kids dripping off you.. I don't know about you, but being able to go somewhere and just be able to get out of the car and walk away, without having to do the 10 minute rigmarole of getting little people in to buggies and away from cars etc, is somewhat of a luxury.


Anyway - the kids were in bed at 6.45pm. Which isn't too bad, cos usually they're in there at 7 anyway, so it wasn't like they were in there right after their dinner or anything.. And one day, I'll tell you all about my anal outlook on bedtimes, and how I go to pieces if the kids are in their beds a little bit later than they should be.

So -they were tucked up in bed. Night night. And both my parents came round to watch the little darlings. Rob and I didn't waste any time in getting the hell out. We didn't even get dollied up for a night out. We just slung on our coats and left. Which makes me wonder... what does it say about us that we couldn't even get dressed up to go out on a date? On reflection though, I think we just thought that we should make the most of this opportunity and not waste half the night getting the lipstick on and just enjoy being out.


We went out, with no plan of action. We just drove - and didn't know where we were going. Well, we ended up going in to Glasgow and just walking about the city centre. I LOVE Glasgow. If we were to ever live anywhere else, I'd be really upset about leaving it. In fact, if I'm ever driving in to the city from the south side, you come over the Kingston Bridge and you get a great view of the City. And I always fill with emotion. I know I'm an idiot... but I really do love it. And for living only 10 mins away from the centre of Glasgow, I never go. So, walking around the town on Friday night was great fun.


It was also Halloween last Friday, and the streets were filled with folk that had dressed up. My favourites included - two guys dressed as Care Bears, (Cheer Bear and Bedtime Bear. By the way.) a guy dressed as Amy Winehouse and a bloke dressed as Mr Tumnus. Complete with hooves. How the guy was able to walk, I don't know. And that was the beginning of the night. No doubt after a few jars, that half man half goat (or whatever he was) was probably trotterless.


Rob and I ended up going in to some Hotel..............................................



and had a drink and played pool!




Hahahahahaha.


Anyway. It was a posh hotel. And the reason I knew this? They served some tasty nuts with our cokes... and didn't charge us. Even the pool table was free. And when I say free, I think the cost of the drinks covered the cost of the use of the pool table and the nuts. Shows how much I get out, when I nearly died when the cost of two drinks comes just short of £5. In my head, I'm thinking - I could've gone up to Asda and bought four 2 litre bottles for that.


But it was great being out, just Rob and I. I loooooove my kids, but it was nice just being out on our own. Should I be self referring myself to the social services for saying that? But it was nice being out on a 'date'.


Though if he doesn't stop beating me at pool, I may have to encourage Mr Tumnus to do some high kicks in his general direction...

Tuesday, 28 October 2008

Keep your hair on... unlike one Michael Bolton.

So - it would seem that my love for one Michael Bolton has divided the masses. As in, I love him, and every one of you seem to think that he's nothing more than a singing perm who wears his trousers too high in the waist. OK - so I was reading between the lines there, but suffice it to say that you're not too enamoured with the smooth sultry sounds of Mr Bolton.

I've loved Mr Bolton since I was 14. My friend Martin gave me a taped copy of Soul Provider. Yes - tape. Remember those!? Anyway. He gave me a copy of this album, and i thought it was magic. I used to listen to it ALL the time. It drove everybody round the bend. I used to play it as I drifted off to sleep, falling in to one big MB dream. One particular dream... where he came chapping at my door in a pair of jeans and a white muslin shirt that showed off his muscular silhouette and his nipples. I know I being graphic with the description - but seriously... this one dream was SO vivid. His long hair (as it was back in the day) tied back in a sleek pony tail, which emphasised his chiseled jaw bone and framed his porcelain veneers. He asked my mum if I was coming out, and he whisked me away to have dinner in Pizza Hut. (He knew how to treat a girl.) Then he got up in the middle of the 'restaurant' and sang How Am I Supposed to Live Without You. Cut to me, back at school and being the envy of all the girls, as the story had hit the newspapers and I was 'the girl that had captured MB's heart'.


Aye.... so I was a tad obsessed by the Bolton love. And then my 15th birthday only fanned the flames of MB passion. My parents bought me a ticket to go and see him in concert! And they had to pay for another ticket for my friend to come along too, cos she wasn't too willing to part with any cash to go and see him!? She was in to Curtis Stigers, who was really the poor man's version of MB, so it made sense for this girl to come with me.


It was a great concert. Though we were the only ones there that were throwing our trainer bras at him. Everyone else was throwing support tights and incontinence knickers. The age divide was huge. We were in a sea of middle aged women. Though somehow, his music brought us all together. The age divide melted away as we all waved our arms in the air and sang along to Steel Bars. (Still my fave, by the way..)


From then on, I bought my own new copies of MB albums. I was a die hard fan. Besides - if I didn't buy his albums, how was he to afford the muslin shirts and the Pizza Hut bills?!


Then, a few years ago, Robbie gave me a couple of tickets to see him in concert again. I was over the moon! Then, come to find out that he was leaving me high and dry to go and see some Rangers football game (it was the Champion's League... apparently some big deal) and he made me go with somebody else! RUDE!


This time it was weird though. I was the one with the incontinence knickers and support tights. I was one of the many middle aged women. And I was still shouting for Steel Bars. Though this time I wasn't so star struck. I think he lost some of his je ne sais quoi when he cut off his locks. Like Samson. He lost a certain something. Or maybe it was the fact that he just kept singing all his new hits that I hadn't heard. I wanted the old school stuff! I wanted to hear Time Love and Tenderness! A little bit of Giorgia on my Mind! I was just about to leave mid way through his concert when he EVENTUALLY sang Steel Bars. But as soon as he'd sang it, I was off.


I felt kind of guilty, like I was betraying a friend. I mean - we had history. But.. maybe I'm not the die hard fan I thought I was. I mean - die hard fans would be out buying every single album ever released and know every single song and send birthday cards and teddy bears and would feel genuinely sad/happy to hear of his break up with Nicolette.


I think I'm more of the Greatest Hits album kind of fan. You know - the type of person who only has Greatest Hits compilations in their CD tower.


Michael - Love is a Wonderful Thing. I love your jaw, your hair, your abs, your muslin shirts and your choice of eateries. Just not any of your stuff after The One Thing.


Thursday, 23 October 2008

Yes, more about me.

Well my life is pretty boring right now. Well, to be fair, it usually is, but I just can't muster the energy to make it sound interesting or funny. So, I was glad when my blogging buddy Shannon tagged everybody who wanted to be tagged. Cos now I don't have to tell you about my 'run' in the wind and rain. And believe you me... you don't want to know.

So - 7 random and /or weird facts.

1. I have no big toenails. I told you I'd tell you about it at some point. I used to get ingrown toenails all the time, and would go to get them cut out, and then they'd just end up growing back in the wrong way, and I'd be back at square one. Eh... by the way- this is not a cute story. In fact, it's pretty sick Just a heads up. But you know you want to know about it.
Anyhoo. I eventually decided to go for the op where they rip off your whole nail, and shove acid down your cuticle to make sure they never grow back again. I went, the anaesthetic didn't work properly and I could feel almost everything. And then, as some kind of 'prize' for sitting through the pain, they gave me my toenails in a specimen cup - some kind of macabre trophy. I kept them for a couple of days, just to gross out Robbie, then I had to say goodbye to them cos he threatened to leave me if I didn't hahaha.

2. I was an EFY counsellor during the summer of 1999. I got to go to Indiana, Alaska, Utah, Wyoming and Idaho. It was great being able to see so much of the States, cos I'd never been before and I haven't been since:( But sometimes the kids couldn't understand my accent, and kept getting me to say lines from So I Married an Axe Murderer. So at the start of one session, I just out on this terrible American accent. Terrible in that I'm quite sure I didn't sound American... more like Russian. They all took it in, and nobody suspected a thing! Maybe i was good after all! But then I forgot to speak in my phony accent and just started talking properly and everybody thought I was putting on some rubbish Scottish accent. One cheeky kid even said that his impersonation of a Scot was better than mine. In the end, I had to show them my passport to prove my nationality. Punks :)

3. I went through a crazy stage when I was 17 and got my ears pierced a few times. 9 holes in one ear and seven in the other. I don't know what kind of look I was going for - but I thought I was cool. Though when I wore hooped earrings and the wind blew, I couldn't hear a thing - the noise was so loud..

4. I won a prize in primary school for growing a hyacinth bulb. I even got my picture in the local paper, standing next to the mayor. Clearly there was nothing else going on in the neighbourhood that week, if the mayor and I made it to the front page. And the thing is, I always had such a guilty conscious about it, because I found some kind of plant food in the garage and put a couple of drops on my budding plant. I felt like if it had gone for some kind of drugs test, it would've failed and would've been stripped of it's winning title. But I wasn't about to give up my new found fame, so I just suppressed my feelings of guilt.

5. I absolutely LOVE Friends. The show. I was so sad when it finished. And I still watch the reruns. All the time. Though the only one I can't watch is the one where Ross cheats on Rachel with the girl from the copy place. I just don't like it. And I don't particularly like Emily in the series either. She gets on my goat. My favourite episodes are when Eddie comes to stay with Chandler, and the one where Monica goes to Barbados and her hair is a riot because of the humidity. For some reason, I could really relate. And I fancy Chandler. And has anyone noticed he's missing the top of his middle finger? Look out for that one, and if anyone knows why he's only got a half a middle finger, I'd really like to know!

6. My favourite ice cream is Ben and Jerry's Half Baked. I don't think I need to expand on that one. Though my back end has expanded because of it...

7. I love Michael Bolton. He is my Soul Provider. I've seen him twice in concert, and have sung my heart out to Steel Bars. Don't judge me. Join me. He is a legend. So was his hair.

So... there you have it. A couple of random thought s for you all. Feel like you know me a little better? Feel like never coming back to my blog now that you know about Michael Bolton?

And my 7 people to tag are Melissa, Jen, Carol, Jill, Liann, Julie and Heidi. Go on - you know you want to!

Sunday, 19 October 2008

Barry! I can't quite breathe!

I found this 'news' story on the BBC website. I LOVE the Bee Gees. And I've found a good reason for proving that loving them is truly life saving...


Bee Gees hit could save your life


US medics have found the Bee Gees' 1977 hit Stayin' Alive is an ideal beat to follow to perform chest compressions on a victim of a cardiac arrest.
Research says it contains 103 beats per minute, close to the recommended rate of 100 chest compressions per minute.
An author of the study said many people were put off performing cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR)as they were not sure about keeping the correct rhythm.
He said CPR could triple cardiac arrest survival rates when performed properly.
The study by the University of Illinois College of Medicine saw 15 doctors and students performing CPR (cardiopulmonary resuscitation) on mannequins while listening to Stayin' Alive. They were asked to their time chest compressions with the beat.
Five weeks later, they did the same drill without the music, but were told to think of the song while doing compressions.
The average number of compressions the first time was 109 per minute; the second time it was 113 - more than recommended by the American Heart Association, but better than too few, according to Dr Matlock.
"It drove them and motivated them to keep up the rate, which is the most important thing," he told the Associated Press.
A spokesman for the American Heart Association, Dr Vinay Nadkarni, said it had been using Stayin' Alive as a training tip for CPR instructors for about two years, although it was not aware of any previous studies that tested the song.




Now all I really need is for Barry Gibb to rock up in his close fitting spandex trousers. (Seriously - did someone spray paint those on him!? Cos that's a job that I would love!!) Him to rock up, while I was having some kind of respiratory problem. Not that I'm willing poor health upon myself, but just an excuse for Baz to look in to my eyes and sing Stayin Alive.


Don't be fooled - this isn't Barbara Streisand with the Bazmeister. It's me after doing the school walk in the rain.

Friday, 17 October 2008

Sneaky Reader

I went to my pit last night at about 9.30pm I was just too tired to sit up and entertain myself by reading funny blogs and making nasty comments on people's Facebook walls. Cos that really is what I do to entertain myself :)


So when Haw came to bed, it was nearly midnight. (He gets called Haw after Rab Ha' (pronounced haw), the famous Glasgow greedy guts.) He made such a din coming to bed, the theatrical sighs, the constant coughing, the incessant rustling of the covers...


Me: "WHAT IS IT ROBBIE???!!!"


Robbie: "So you're awake then?"


Me: "I am now, you inconsiderate so and so." (OK - so I've toned down the language for you all, but you can imagine my choice of words after being woken up by a noisy imbecile who thinks it amusing to see how in the space of a few short hours my hair has become what looks like a retreat for hibernating guinea pigs.)


Robbie: "Well, do you want to know why I'm late to bed? (he doesn't even wait for an answer - he knew I wasn't in the least bit interested.) I found your blog and read it all.


Cut to me and my crazy bed head sitting upright in bed staring at him in mute disbelief.


Now, obviously my blog is out there in the webby world for all to see. And I'm glad you all come by and have a wee read and even happier when you leave a comment. (While we're on this subject - why is it SO good to get comments?!)


But when he told me he'd been reading my blog, I felt invaded! I mean... there were comments about him in there. And now he keeps on reciting the ONE nice comment I made about him in my last post about how I love him "Enormously".


See? That's what happens when I'm nice to the boy. It gets slapped in my face. That's why I need to keep him on his toes by not being too kind and loving all the time:)


But I did find it odd to have him read my blog. I mean... he knows me. And I suppose you all do to an extent:) But it's different, cos I could be be painting myself as one hot chica that is super talented and a complete wonder woman, and you'd all have to believe me, cos... well, how would you know if I were lying? FYI.... I AM one hot chica and super talented and a complete wonder woman. ;)


Is it weird though that I almost confide in people that I've never met - may never meet, or people that don't see me at all often? Why is it OK for you read my blog and not my husband?! Why do I LOVE to read your comments on my blog, but wince when I hear Robbie's comments on it!?


Anyway... all random questions. He's not reading it again. He won't want to. COS IF YOU'RE READING THIS, HAW, I'VE GOT SOME PICS THAT I DON'T THINK YOU'LL WANT TO HAVE FLOATING AROUND THE WEB...



Don't worry folks - they're only ghastly pics of him when he was a teenager. Nothing too bad ;)


Tuesday, 14 October 2008

The ladies have been brought to justice

Well it would seem that attending Fat Club has it's positives after all. I had the unnerving opportunity to go for a professional bra fitting the other day. (As opposed to the unprofessional bra fitting??) And it would seem that the ladies are getting smaller.

The last time I went for a fitting was YEARS ago. I think the last time I went was when I was 18. And after being back for another one, I remembered why it took me so long to go back for another one.

The lady showed me in to a changing room and asked me to strip to my waist but keep my 'lady hammock' on. OK.. she didn't call it that, but I'm shy about using the actual word. :)

So.. I quickly took my t-shirt off and then I caught a glimpse of myself in the unforgiving mirror. From all angles. HEINOUS. So then I quickly tried to pull up my jeans to try and tuck in any excesses of chub in to my waist band, and tried a few different poses, to see what pose best minimised the sight of my stretch marks on my belly (blinking babies....). And then suddenly the curtain was yanked back, leaving me in full view of a couple of young girls, who were outside the changing room, waiting for their mum. No doubt the sight of me will haunt them for years to come.

The woman came in, and gave me a quick measure - and I was so caught off guard by her cold tape that I didn't use any of my poses. She would've clocked my escaping chub and my rippled belly in all it's 'glory'.

So, she told me what size she thought I should be, and I was pleasantly surprised cos it was a lot smaller than I thought I was. I mean, they're still embarrassingly big. And not in a good way. Seriously. But I was revelling in the fact that I wouldn't be able to do my party piece of checking to see if my bra would fit me by putting it on my head.

She asked me if I wanted to try on a few bras to check the size. I said sure, still feeling great about my smaller bust line.

She came back with a few different hammocks. And stood in the cubicle with me as she waited for me to try them on.

Em.... now, I'm not a prude, and hell, I have no dignity left after having 3 kids. But I did come over all shy all of a sudden. I mean... I don't put a bra on in a savoury manner. There is a lot of bending over and tipping in. That's all I'm saying. But she stood there while I was contorting all over the place trying to get changed. Yikes. She must've been horrified. Cos I was.

But once that feat of engineering was on, I was amazed. No longer would I lose things down that cleavage again. That's how good the hammock was. I could go on explaining why I thought it was so good, but won't... just in case there's a creepy guy reading this.

Though I nearly choked on my underwire when it came to pay for this miracle garment... Though, can you put a price on an amazing rack?




NB. I have never had any small winged things in my bra ... without me realising it... in case there was any confusion - I am NOT that girl that Carol was talking about.... Now that really would've been an experience for the ladies...

Thursday, 9 October 2008

Anniversary? Must we celebrate it? :(


Robbie and I will be married 9 years this December. And though I may bad mouth the boy, I do love him. Enormously. And in my defence, he really asks for the bad mouthing. He likes it. He responds to it. I like it. I respond to it.


Anyway. We were discussing out upcoming anniversary. More like I was asking what we were going to be doing to celebrate it. And I always ask with a hint of suspicion and dread. And no wonder.


For our first anniversary, Robbie decided to surprise me and organised a weekend in Glencoe - a beautiful part in the Scottish highlands. We stayed in a hotel called the Kings House Hotel. He'd taken advice from folk at his work, who'd all said that this place was really romantic, and that it had a big roaring fire, that the staff were lovely and the rooms clean and that the scenery was breathtaking.


Of course, you know that I'm going to tell you that those were all LIES. No... actually - the scenery is beautiful up there. Though when we went, it was the dead of winter, with only a few hours of daylight. So, most of the scenery went unseen.


To put it bluntly, our first anniversary ended up being a bit guff. We drove up to Glencoe in about 2 hours. With no windscreen pump in our car. It had broken just before we made our trip, so it meant that every so often, we'd had to pull over and spray the windscreen with the only 'liquid' we had in the car... de-icer. The roads were muddy and for once, when rain would have been welcome, it was a dry day, so the trips to the lay by were plentiful.


Anyway - we got up there, and by then it was about 3 in the afternoon, so it was already nearly dark. We could just see the outline of the mountains of Glencoe and no more. But we were staying up there for an entire weekend, so we figured we'd sight see then next day.


The first sign that this was going to be a cack weekend was the fact that the Scottish tourist board had only awarded this hotel 2 stars (out of a possible 5.) And yet despite this miserly award, they displayed a plaque with their paltry 2 stars at the main entrance. The main entrance with the broken glass window and the overwhelming smell of dog hitting you as you walked in.


Down a narrow hallway, past glass cases full of dead wildlife, immortalised forever by a seriously unskilled taxidermist. Past a main reception room with a fireplace featuring a poxy little glow of a fire. This was meant to be the romantic roaring fire that had been described by the pathological liars at Robbie's work.


On to the reception where we waited behind some serious mountain climbers. They had all the gear hanging off them - ropes, sleeping bags, walking poles, cramp-ons.. I suddenly felt out of place, as I rocked up to the reception with my high heeled boots on and faux leather jacket and eyelashes primped and lacquered in mascara.


Anyway. Some woman with a knitted sweater showed us to our room. Room. A room. For that was all it was. Oh, and a bed. With some bogging sheets. OK... OK... Let's be fair. We did have an en suite. I mean, I don't want to make out that the room was all that bad. We had a bed, some 'bedding' and a bathroom, which featured a toilet, a bath and a sink. No shower. And no telly. And no shower cap!


We were in for a loooooooong weekend. And it was a long weekend. We actually went in to Fort William the next day, which was the nearest 'town' and tried to find a shop that sold board games and books, so that we could occupy ourselves. We found a WHSmith where we bought a couple of newspapers with lots of supplements and a quiz book. A bumper edition quiz book. They had no board games though :(


We stayed at that hotel for two whole nights. And as soon as we opened our eyes on our day of departure, we got the hell out of there.


That weekend taught me a few things. I'm a girl who likes her comforts. Comforts that include a shower, a clean bathroom (I daren't start on the state of the bathroom), a telly, some daylight, a windscreen pump, a roaring fire and honest work mates.
It also taught me that I'm a miserable so and so, and completely ungrateful. But that's OK. I don't mind :)
But it does concern me that Robbie says he's planning a nice anniversary this year... Hopefully he's just going to treat me with a meal at Pizza Hut. At the buffet. With free drinks re-fills. And an ice cream machine where the ice cream flows as much as my heaving gut will allow.
So here's to 9 years, Rab. This year I'll be grateful. I promise.
As long as it's good.

Monday, 6 October 2008

To love and to cherish...

How rude. Robbie looked in to my eyes(non mascara-ed eyes.. he went to work with my make up bag in the car. Feel my pain as the realisation of a day without any features swept over me) and as I braced myself for a loving comment, he said




"what's with your hair today? It's kind of..."




me (quickly trying to intercept with excuses before he has to go on, trying to find words to explain my inexplicable barnet): "I washed it last night, and went to bed while it was still wet... I've tried to straighten it...




Rob: "yeah.. it's ...kind of.."




Me:"what? what? It's kind of what?" Thinking to myself, that if Robbie's noticed there's something amiss with my do, then it really must be bad.




Rob: "well, you kinda look like a psycho hose beast."




Well, there's really no comeback from that one.




So at the precise moment that I'm typing this post, my scalp is ringing with the sting of hair dye, and I shall be up to the wee small hours trying to sculpt a style in to this Medusa-inspired hairdo.




Wish me luck.

Sunday, 5 October 2008

For my friend Kristy

This post is for my friend Kristy. Kristy and I were missionary companions in Leicester (England) in 1998.. (can't believe it's that long ago! ): ) She was great! We had the best time and worked hard, but we only got to spend 6 weeks together!! I was quite upset about that, cos she really was great to be around, and was so loving to other people and concerned for their welfare. She taught me a lot. She really is one of the nicest people you could ever wish to meet.

She emailed me last night to tell me about her adoption plans. So I thought I'd post her details on my blog, in the hope that somebody might read it and know someone that may be able to help/need help..

Here's her email to me,


Hello to all of our family and friends,

We are very excited to ask for your help in passing along our adoption information. We have been working diligently for the past few years searching for a birthmother who desires to make an adoption plan. Through your help in sharing our information, we hope to find our birthmother.

Please click on the link below to view our on-line profile, which contains information about us, photographs, and our contact information.


ChrisandKristy

By looking at our profile you are able to see how we are presenting ourselves, however you also have the opportunity to help us in a much greater way. The more people who know about us, the better it is for us. We would be ever greatful if you would do a great service for us and forward this email to everyone that you know and ask them to look at it and forward it onto everyone they know. Even if you think we may have already sent this to a mutual friend, please send it on anyway. It may be helpful to include a short personal message when forwarding it on.

Our goal here is to find even one birthmother who will consider us. Chances are that one of you knows someone who is related to someone who works with someone who went to college with someone who has a friend… (you get the idea) who knows someone looking to make an adoption plan. We've seen this work many times before and know that others can help us connect with a birthmother. Please feel free also to add our link to your blog and/or myspace/facebook pages.

If for some reason the link above doesn't work, you can search for our profile (ChrisandKristy) at
www.itsaboutlove.org, click "Search Adoption Profiles" and type in "ChrisandKristy". Thank you in advance for your willingness to pass this on. This means so much to us. We have an amazingly strong desire to start our family and it's through the beautiful act of adoption that our dreams will come true. Miracles happen every day. Thanks for being part of our miracle.

Love,

Chris & Kristy



I hope that Kristy and Chris are able to find a family of their own that they're able to love. Please send on this info to all you may know... just in case their information reaches the ears of someone out there who is needing to find a loving mother and father for their child.

Friday, 3 October 2008

Golly I'm Jolly with my Trolley Dolly.

Don't be jealous. I mean, not any more than you already are. I know my good looks, fantastic personality and heaving bank account mean I'm probably already at the top of your aspirational/hate list, but I've made my peace with that. It comes with the territory of being so fabulous.



But you've got a new reason to be really jealous. For I have a new bag, you see. And it's not any old guff out of Primark (... though I do heart their bags). It's a Trolley Dolly. And my mummy bought it for me :).







Go on... hate me. But I know when I'm at the checkout, I look the business. Seriously.

Wednesday, 1 October 2008

Saturday, 27 September 2008

I'd like to pretend this show gets on my Tittifers...


Bear with me on this one - I love In The Night Garden. Controversial? Perhaps. Because as a general rule, all children's shows really get on my goat. And don't even get me started on children's TV presenters. I mean, I understand that they're talking to toddlers and young children, but are kids really that stupid!? They should bear in mind that the parents of these children are in ear shot of their 'zany' antics and their stage-school induced joie de vivre, and should therefore tone it down a notch. How do these people act in normal society? Do they have dinner parties and place the hors d'ouvres in the shape of a smiley face? Do they shout in the faces of their guests and play children's rhymes as lounge music?




Well, I wasn't going to get in to children's TV presenters, but there you have a snap shot of my feelings on that subject.




So - back to In The Night Garden. I LOVE it. It's made by the same folk that brought us those heinous characters, the Teletubbies. That's the only downfall to ITNG. The teletubbies I'm quite sure, are evil. I find them sinister and disturbing.




But ITNG is great - it's a show comprising of a whole load of freaky looking creatures that loll about a garden making squeaks and repeating their names over and over again. But the narrator has the most soothing voice. He may be talking a load of tripe ("round and round, a little boat, no bigger than your hand...") but he has an hypnotic element to his voice that lulls you in to a trance. And the music that accompanies the programme... well. I've since thrown out my 'Whales in Mating Season' relaxation cd in favour of this. Yes - there IS a cd to accompany the ITNG series. And I have it. This is the kind of cd that people need to listen to when in labour, when trying to relax, when the kids have gone to bed and you're needing to unwind, when you just need to feel like all's right with the world.


I think my love for In The Night Garden may be classed as a guilty pleasure, because there's no way that I'd openly admit to this nugget of information at a social event with my peers. But I feel relieved of the burden by bearing my soul on here instead. Probably because I can't see you screwing your faces up thinking... what the...?! But... is there anybody feeling the same way?! Do you folks across the pond even have this show? Tell me I'm not alone in my thinking that the only way to world peace is through the narrator, Derek Jacobi?


Come - join with me as we pack the kids off the bed and listen uninterrupted to the gentle squeaks of Iggle Piggle, appreciate the cleanliness (if not OCD) of Makka Pakka, and be cheered by the chirping of the Tittifers. You know you want to...

Tuesday, 23 September 2008

The Clan of Campbell

I was reading a friend's blog and it really brought home to me all the important things in life - namely my little family. I feel bad for taking for granted the things I have and the people in my life that mean a lot to me and whom I love and who love me. So, no rants - just an entry of appreciation.

Robbie and Hannah.


Eilidh.

And baby Esther :)

Monday, 22 September 2008

University (mentally) challenge(d)




I'm sitting here being subjected to (because it's certainly not MY choice) one of the worst shows ever. University Challenge. A game show of two teams from different universities, being asked general knowledge questions. Sounds inoffensive enough. But not to me. Two teams of socially awkward freaks that think it's cool to have a team mascot in the form of a child's teddy bear. Like the teddy bear is going to bring these social ne'er do wells some kind of luck. Clearly not. No luck in answering some of the simplest questions correctly. No luck in looking in the slightest bit attractive, or even presentable. No luck in looking hygienic. No luck in thinking that their appearance on University Challenge is going to make them somehow irresistible to the opposite sex (or same for that matter). No luck in winning the show only to realise you get hee haw in the form of prizes. And no luck in thinking that meeting the host Jeremy Paxman, is going to be an interesting anecdote at your next student party.




Aaahhhhh..... Now I feel better. I think I just needed to vent my disdain for these ghoulish game shows. But really - who (apart from Rob) is the target audience for this show? They should be judged for watching it, And judged harshly.

Wednesday, 17 September 2008

Excuse me while I trip over my spaniel ears.


I've just weaned Esther off of the home brew and she is now hitting the bottle. Of course. I'm happy that I get to regain some kind of independence, and I feel liberated in the knowledge that if I go out, I don't need to be at the beck and call of a 6 month old child that doesn't know what it is to be full up.


But there's also the downside. Goodbye to the emotional attachment, goodbye to the realisation that she doesn't depend on me and me alone to survive. And hello to the fact that I now have my independence... where do I go? What do I do?! And hello to a couple of mobile door stops. A couple of draught excluders. A couple of spaniel ears. A couple of kneewarmers. you get the idea.


Maybe with my new found independence I'll go in to town to look for a miracle over the shoulder boulder holder. I'm thinking of one with some sort of pulley system attached to my back. It'll have to be one feat of engineering to get these puppies under control..

Saturday, 13 September 2008

Toupee Shakur


No - this isn't Rowan Atkinson... this is me - and my new hair cut. Except in this picture, his fringe is ever so slightly longer than mine.
I would post a picture, but my camera doesn't seem to pick up tiny rat toupees sat upon a beach ball head.

Thursday, 11 September 2008

Have I missed the latest trend?

I don't pretend to be the first and last word in the latest fashion. Even though I look blinkin' magic in whatever I wear... But there seems to be some new craze that is hitting the streets. And I do mean the streets.

For some reason, it has become OK to walk about the streets in your pyjamas. Folk go up to Asda and do their shopping in their pyjamas. Hell - some even walk home with the bleeding shopping trolley...in their pyjamas. Some mums drop their kids off at school in their pyjamas. In fact, there's one woman who drops her child off at school with a mug of coffee in her hands. Some go to the petrol station and fill up... in their pyjamas.


And these incidents happen at different times of the day. All women. All fleecy pyjama bottoms. And most of them are dolled up with their hair and makeup done. So - if they had time to sort their faces out, why couldn't they sling on a pair of jeans?!
I think it's become some sort of trend - some sort of fashion statement. But what exactly is that statement?! "I'm a lazy sod and just can't be bothered" or "I want to conform and pretend to be a lazy sod even though I'm not" or "Primark have a sale on their fleecy pyjama bottoms and I simply want the world to know".
So - own up. Who does this?! Is this a purely British thing? (I know it's not just a Scottish thing cos when we were on holiday, the streets of Newquay were filled with hen parties lolling around in their pj's.)
Well, I for one, will not conform. Not least cos this style, to me is the very essence of utter laziness, but because... I have no cute fleecy pj's... :(


Tuesday, 9 September 2008

My fan base..


We have a fan in our bedroom that we bought not long after we were married. We bought it because it was sooooooooooo hot (for about a week - but it really was insufferable) one summer that we decided to 'hot' foot it to Costco (you know you love the Kirkland Signature). I was so hot and bothered, that I had my eye on a huge industrial sized fan that would've blown your eyelids off your face. But, reason prevailed, and we got a very lovely chrome effect oscillating fan, that could be changed from a desk fan to a floor standing one. Very nice.


At first, it took a bit of getting used to - the whirring noise was quite a distraction. But we put up with it, in the name of coolness. (Temperature wise...)


And then we moved it in to the bedroom because I don't know about you - even when I'm hot at night, I still need the duvet over me, with my ear tucked underneath it. Like a security thing or something. (I also have my bedtime rituals, like cracking my toes off of Robbie's feet... nice... and I have to first of all lie on my left side, then commit to sleep by lying on my right side. Always.) So with the fan in there, I could be swamped by my duvet, and still be cool.


And again, it took some getting used to - the whirring of the fan really got on my goat, but I did enjoy not being sweaty and bogging.


Fast forward to today, eight years on. Every single night when I go to bed, that fan is turned on. Even when it is absolutely freezing. That fan gets turned on. Even when we brought all of our babies home from the hospital, and they had to sleep in our room for the first 6 months of their lives. That was fan was turned on. (To be fair, in case there's a random health visitor reading this... their crib was in a part of the room that couldn't be reached by the fan's ever-blowing gale.)


The whirring of that fan indicates that it's bed time, and it's gentle breeze lulls you off to noddy land tout de suite. It also drowns out any noise outside, which is great if you have sociable neighbours who like to enjoy the odd party and then sing sectarian songs to those of other 'faiths' in the street.


When we went on holiday this year, we left the fan at home. BIG mistake. We were lost. We were without our sixth member of the family. We struggled to get to sleep. We struggled to drown out the racket of the nocturnal karaoke machine. We missed that fan.


So - I'm off to bed. Because all this talk of Fanny the FanFan is making me realise that I'm missing out on valuable sleeping time.

Sunday, 7 September 2008

Excuse me while I hack up a lung..




The girls and I went to cheer on my sister, Gemma and my Mum as they ran in couple of races today. (The above pic shows my sister Rachael, Mum, brother in law Garry, sister Gemma, sister Rebecca and brother in law Lee.) My Mum was running 10k and Gemma was running 22k. My contribution to the cause, was to stand at the finish line and wave a couple of flags and cheer. OK - and scoff at those runners that looked like they were literally on their last legs. Yes, I do enjoy a spot of cheering and jeering.




They did really well, and did both of their runs in record time. Very proud - cos there's no way I'd be able to do it!




And the reason I know this?




Because I had to walk from the car to Glasgow Green, while pushing a double buggy and dragging a 5 year old. And when I say I was walking, I was speed walking.




And yes, I AM going to make this about me. Yes - my mum and sister did extremely well - I can't deny that. But where was my space blanket? Where was my medal? Where were my cheers? Why couldn't I get access to the Holistic tent for a massage to ease my aching muscles? Because quite frankly, I felt like I had completed a marathon myself.




Clearly I need to get fit. But in the meantime, I shall moan about how far I've walked and how heavy that blinkin' buggy is.




I'm walking Eilidh to school tomorrow. I'm starting an online sponsorship. You can donate to my donut fund at http://www.iamachubberandcannotwalkthelengthofmyself.com




Friday, 5 September 2008

Social graces?

So - I'm still pretty new to this bloggy thing. As far as I'm concerned, I'm just typing away, venting my inane thoughts and if anyone wants to have a wee read, that's great!

But is there some kind of social etiquette that needs to be adhered to when reading other people's blogs, or leaving comments, or replying to comments...?

Do I return the favour and come and visit your blog in return, if you come by mine?

All I'm saying is, I'm quite a polite girl really, and I wouldn't like to think I'm being obtuse and ignorant to people. Unless you're deserving of it ;)

So - any help would be much appreciated :)

Thursday, 4 September 2008

I'll order three sets of dentures please..

We all went on a lovely family outing yesterday. To the dentist. Cos that's what we do. The park? No. The zoo? No. If the kids have been good - the doctor's.


It turned out to be an eye-opening (as well as a mouth opening) experience. While i was in the chair, I was asking about my baby tooth that's still intact. Yes - my freakishness knows no bounds. Apparently I didn't have an adult tooth behind this baby tooth and so my ickle bitty molar is still there. It's weathered many a meal, many a sweet, many a brush. Mr Dentistman said that I ought to look out for it occurring in the girls, because it can be a genetic thing.


"Yes - have a look out for it occurring in your daughters, because it can run in families." He says behind that mask.. which incidentally, if I were a dentist, I'd have to rub VapoRub on the inside, so that I wouldn't have to smell anybody's manky breath.

"But" he goes on, "teeth are more likely to run from the father's side".


Now. If there's one thing that's certain in this world, it's that Robbie's teeth are plentiful and sizable. I've seen pictures of him when he was young, and the boy could chew an apple through a letterbox. Once I saw pictures of him, I had to seriously consider marriage... because there was a chance that he could pass on those tombstones to any future children that I may bear. But now I've been told that the 'chance' is almost a definite.


OK. So - I've come to terms with the fact that my kids are probably going to have teeth like a piano keyboard. They'll probably have to wear headgear for the best part of their teens. Stonemasons will try and carve epitaphs on them if they stand still for long enough.




It kind of puts my baby tooth foible in to perspective. I mean - what would you rather inflict on your kids? A little baby tooth, or a set of gnashers that are so plentiful that they'd have to get most of them removed, just so they'd fit in their wee heads?



Once again, it proves that only the good genes come from me, and all weird quirky traits will come from the boy.



My poor babies...













By the way - these are just Billy Bob teeth, and were taken ages ago. Little did I know these pictures would serve as a type of crystal ball, by revealing the future for my princesses! :(

Monday, 1 September 2008

Breast pads..LITERALLY all over the shop.


I've just come back from Asda. You see, I can't do a huge shop during the day because, quite frankly, it's a nosebleed. (It's also come to my attention - because my friend told me - that I call all nightmare scenarios "nosebleeds". Shopping - nosebleed. Eating dinner with kids - nosebleed. Walking to school in the rain so that my hair frizzes - nosebleed.) To try and get round Asda with kids is a nosebleed. And I don't understand why it's always so bad. I always go prepared. I have a bag of sweets for each child (even if it's 9am! I can put up with the judgemental stares of beige-clad old folk if it means i can get a bit of p&q going round the store) and i usually have a mind full of games that we can play while going round. Eye spy.. who can spot the haemorrhoid cream etc etc.. But despite my best efforts, the sweets are devoured while still in the fruit and veg section, and the eye spy games are met with looks of disdain. And then it usually kicks off and we leave with a couple of bananas and a packet of garlic bread.


So - I've just come back from Asda (now 10.15pm), where only about half an hour ago, i was in the drinks section (nearly at the end of the shop) when I happen to notice something sticking out of my top. Only a rogue breast pad. A day old breast pad. A sodden crumpled manky old pad sticking out of my flaming top. How long has it been there? Is that why that guy in the cleaning aisle looking at me? I thought he may have been judging my out of control fooz (the rain is incessant right now, and there aren't enough hair products in the world that can control this beast) or my smudged mascara (Esther had clawed my face - all in the name of fun of course) or the fact that I was wearing a pair of flip flops despite the fact I have no big toe nails. (as in two big toes - no nails on either. And if you're good, I'll tell you all about that another day...)


No - this guy must have been looking at the breast pad. Looking and judging. For I would have done the same.


What is it with these blinkin' things?! Why do they never stay put!? The number of times I've had to hunt around for it... only to find it's hidden in my pit, or fallen on the floor (nice in company). I can breastfeed quite discreetly, you wouldn't even know I was doing it. But I tend to give the game away when I end up rooting around looking for this pesky bit of absorbent cotton pad..


Luckily, I have no dignity left, what with the aforementioned hair, no toenails, and sliding make up. I really am a picture. I should've used my wandering pad to slap him in the face before shoving it back down in to the dark recesses from whence it came.

Sunday, 31 August 2008

Weight Watchers!? Aye - watch the weight go up..

I have always struggled with my weight. In other words, I've always struggled with a nervous tic in my arm that involuntarily picks up cream cakes and rams them in to my face. So, to try and treat this tic and the resulting 'sturdy' hips, I thought I'd go to Weight Watchers.


Weight Watchers. Fat Fighters. Fat Club. I had been going to a class on a Wednesday morning and had to change it because Eilidh's now at school, so I couldn't make it anymore (rather selfish on her part, actually). So, on Saturday morning, I went to the meeting at a different location. I couldn't find the bleeding place. It was in some community centre. I couldn't think clearly cos I hadn't had any breakfast and didn't want to breathe too deeply, in case any of these things added on about 6 lbs. So I pulled in to a wee spar shop to ask for direction, careful not to inhale too deeply near the chocolate bars. The shopkeeper was about to tell me where it was, when some old biddy who had been rudely eavesdropping, asked me if it were fat fighters I was looking for, and proceeded to tell me where the community centre was.


Cheeky, cheeky bandit. So - she's looked at me and thought - 'hold up, lardy lady.. you're looking for the community centre? Have a stop by weight watchers an' all.' Indeed. But at least I'm fabulous, and don't stink of urine and Scotch Broth.


It's such a strange mix of people.. people of all sizes, all backgrounds, all varying degrees of personal hygiene. But what's really strange is that everybody shares their tales of woe regarding their weight and what they've eaten in past week that may affect the outcome on the scales. (I like to refer to them as the scales of doom.)




"I had a sausage roll this week - I'll have put on at least 3 lbs."




"I've not had a bowel movement this morning, I've tried but I just cant go. That's at least 2lbs on the scales!"




"The bottom of my jeans are wet - I stood in a puddle coming in..how many pounds will that put on?"




And it's odd because in any other circumstance, you'd never dream of talking about your weight to people, let alone complete strangers, yet that social grace goes out of the window and folk ask you what you'd lost, what you'd gained, how much more you've got to lose (so they can can feel better about themselves when they've got to lose less than you).


Anyway. After the humiliation of standing on a set of scales and being told by a 'big boned' helper (who was sporting a moustache that would've made Tom Selleck jealous) that I'd put on 2.5 lbs, I felt like threatening her and her moustache with physical violence.



Came back home, having been thoroughly humiliated and emotionally slapped, and watched my favourite show - The Barefoot Contessa. Yes, a cooking programme. And I watched her make a whole load of chocolate muffins with peanut butter icing. And I am not kidding.... these things looked FABULOUS. My friend has a theory that watching shows like that, especially while on a diet is like watching food porn. You know you shouldn't. You're not allowed all the things that are being made, but you watch anyway. And feel guilty as you do so. You imagine what it would be like to lick the icing off the top of the muffins, before sinking your filthy teeth in to the soft, still-warm chocolaty sponge of the muffin. Making sure to cram the whole filthy cake in to your filthy face in case someone were to come in and catch you eating it. And then... you'd sniff the paper case... the crumpled paper holding on to crumby remnants of it's glorious occupant that has since been devoured so hastily.




I suppose the one thing in my dieting favour, is the fact that I'm too bone idle to go and make these damned muffins myself. I can look and drool, and imagine and dream about them, but all of that will not add the pounds. Or as it would seem in my case, it does. 2.5 lbs!? Damn you Ina Garten. Damn you and your fabulous cakes. And your mini meat loaves. And your chocolate brownies. And your lemon yogurt cakes.

And damn the scales at weight watchers. And the old biddy in the shop. And the slug on that woman's top lip.




And damn me for clearly eating too much this week...

Wednesday, 27 August 2008

Well, it's called the Campbell Clan after all...


I love me. And this blog has highlighted that. So I thought to save face, I'd better post a picture of my beautiful girls. Well, they're part of me, and a product of me (and Rob I suppose) so here's to me having beautiful offspring. I really am good.

Tuesday, 26 August 2008

To Pong Poo, thanks for everything Comfort and Lenor

One of my biggest 'fears' is smelling bad. My worst nightmare (and really - I don't think I'm being dramatic..) is going throughout the day stinking of BO or fecal matter and not knowing it. I really don't think there's any reason why anybody should stink. One should have a bath or shower every day, wash all the necessary nooks and crannies and use the appropriate defences against the possible incidence of the aforementioned aromas, ie anti-perspirant on the pits (and cleavage, if it's ample enough.. Trust me - a squirt of deodorant down there really makes a difference) and maybe a puff of talc on certain crevices.

But my favourite thing to smell of, is fabric softener. Actually, when I first started going out with Robbie, I was attracted to the way he smelled.. He smelled of washing powder. Which suggested that he was clean. What I realise now is that his mother made sure he was clean by doing his washing for him..

My favourite softener is the yellow Lenor. Think it's Summer Breeze. If i was really invested in this, I'd go and check, but i can't be bothered moving my heaving patoot to do so. Anyway - it's lovely. And when I'm doing the washing, I like to put double the amount in. Sure, it's unnecessary. Sure, it's excessive. Sure, it irritates the girls' sensitive skin. But it smells great. And the waft of clean washing round the house gives the illusion that you've got a clean home. And the waft of clean clothing gives the illusion that you're a clean person.

But the best thing, is going to bed in freshly washed sheets. Snuggling in to your duvet and pillows, being enveloped by the smell of summer meadows and washing lines. This only ever lasts for the first night though. No fabric detergent is mighty enough to combat the filth that is Robbie's scalp. I go mad if he uses my pillows.. making it dirty with his smelly face and greasy head... the smell of summer being smothered by the smell of day old head and hair product and sweaty face.

So here's to smelling good. Here's to cleanliness. Here's to a big ol' carbon footprint with all the double doses and excessive washing. Here's to a crusade to get Rob to take a shower before he goes to bed at night. Here's to Lenor.