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.

Sunday, 24 August 2008

Hormone check please.

I was watching 'Who Do You Think You Are' the other night. This is a programme about 'celebrities' tracing their family trees. I love the series. It's like a guilty secret. Well - it's not actually cool to like genealogy, is it?
Anyway - this last episode was featuring Boris Johnson, the Mayor of London. It was great. (By the way - the link for this will only last a few more days... so if you're going to watch it, then do it now. Well... read my rambling first...)

And when the episode was finished, I realised that I had another bloke to add to my list. My gaggle of gents that make me weak at the knees. A flock of fellows that make me giddy. A cluster of chaps that set my heart all a flutter. Indeed, a list of guys that I can only dream about.

My list is not exhaustive, but it's very hard to get on to my list - I don't fancy just anyone. Well, Robbie proves that last statement incorrect, but you know what I mean.

And I can't even explain what it is that makes me fancy these people that are on my list. So I'll leave it up to the people who read this, to try and figure out the formula for me. What is it about these men that I find utterly attractive? Why do I fancy them so much?! And why isn't Robbie anywhere near this list? Haha... I'm laughing, cos he really isn't anywhere near this list!

And so here they are ... in chronological order (first being the one I've fancied the longest..)


Laurence Llewlyn Bowen. TV Personality.. Interior designer. Capturer of my heart. My first flutterings for him came when I saw him rag roll a wall in Hull. Something about his dandy shirts and flowing locks got me all giddy... way back in 2000.


Rick Stein. Celebrity Chef, lover of Jack Russells and object of my affections. I had a serious thing for Rick when I was pregnant with Hannah. I don't know if I had pregnancy cravings for the fish I saw him cooking, or pregnancy cravings for him. Whatever - I fancy him and enjoy nothing more than to see him rustle up a bouillabaisse aboard a barge in the South of France.

Boris Johnson London Mayor, Tory MP and luscious locked lovely. And my affections for him grew after watching said programme.

So... I leave it to you, reader. What is it about these hunks of masculinity that I find so damned attractive? Help me define it, so that I can guide Robbie on how to adopt it.

Lovely, lovely, lovliness.

Friday, 22 August 2008

Hooray.... boke.


Big shout outs for my daughter Hannah, who has mastered the very difficult art of going to the toilet. Going where she's supposed to - in the toilet... the latrine... the W.C... the pot etc etc.


It's been a looong few weeks. And to be honest, I'm tired out from it all! My biceps are bulging, because as soon as she says "sore bot, sore bot", it means she's ready to go. And I turn in to a weightlifter/sprinter as I lift her and run upstairs to the loo.


For those of you that have gone through the ordeal of toilet training, you'll know that you have a to make a big deal when 'a gift is offered'. Whoops and squeals of delight, shouting hooray and chanting their name, saying hello to said gift, before he sails away, are just some of the things you need to do in the beginning.


So - at what point can these cheers stop, and the child can go to the bog without looking for a huge congratulatory applause for their good deeds?


Apparently Hannah's not ready. She insists on me cheering for her. Today, she even had to lead the chanting of her name. She grabbed my face and pointed it down the loo, so I could say goodbye to her baby slugs before they sloped off to "find their mummy's".


So here's hoping that soon enough, Hannah will no longer feel the need to be cheered on by a third party, that the skill of doing the necessary in the required receptacle will bring it's own personal exhilaration. Cos quite frankly, my stomach can't take it anymore.

Thursday, 21 August 2008

The road kill on my head

Eilidh started school the other day. Soooo proud. But, since this blog is all about my rantings, and general dim view on the world, I'm going to talk about me, and not my first born's first day at school. Because, after all.. it's all about me. Always. All the time. Me, me, me.

So - the school is only a 5 minute walk from our house. And the weather has been atrocious. Rain like you wouldn't believe. Unless you live in Scotland and have come to expect nothing else. In fact, if you expect every day to be completely miserable, and it's not, then you an only ever be pleasantly surprised.

So - the rain. More like the effects it has on my beehive. I have short bobbed hair, that requires the good ol' GHD's to tame and manage. Every morning. But as soon as I step outside in to the slightest bit of drizzle, I look like Jo Brand. In fact, I almost look like I'm 14 again, though back then, the fuzz was due to a dodgy home perm and was de rigeur.

But how do you manage an umbrella and a double buggy? I even had a hood up, and it still frizzed up. I wouldn't like anyone to think that I never make an effort with my bonce, because quite frankly, too much effort goes in to it... without the return.

Perhaps I have to come to terms with my curls. maybe i have to embrace them, instead of straightening them.

Hell no. I'm not going to embrace the Whitesnake look. Again.


Sunday, 17 August 2008

People should know when they're rubbish.


It's that time of year, when Simon Cowell graces our screens again. Having said that, he seems to be on all the time, what with American Idol being shown on ITV2.


X Factor is back. Again. I don't ever watch this guff until there's only about 5 contestants left, and that's because by that time, they've papped the really crappy folk, leaving just the semi-decent singers. And I say semi-decent, cos Britain just doesn't seem to provide a plethora of talented singers. Leona Lewis is probably the only exception. And to realise how rubbish we are, you only have to watch even the beginning stages of American Idol and see how much better looking and sounding they are compared to our shockingly poor offerings to the world of 'music'.


Anyway. Robbie won the battle for the remote control last night. (Oooo... the dizzy social life of the Campbells. Saturday night in front of the box) And cos I couldn't be bothered moving my heaving ass, I was subjected to the early heats for the X Factor.


My stomach was in a knot. I cannot bear to look/listen to the GHOULS that walk on in, and belt out a shocking rendition of a (usually shockingly bad) song... I will always love you etc. I cannot bear how blunt and brutal these judges can be. There's no beating about the bush. Here come these hopefuls, with dreams of a better life for themselves, pictures in Heat magazine, dating a 2nd division footballer/Nuts glamour model, Christmas number ones; and with one scathing comment, they leave with their dreams in tatters.


Though I don't think the judges should be blamed for ruining these people's lives. These individuals should be held responsible. How did they get to the point where they thought they were any good? Was there no loved one, or friend that could take them to one side, and say "Listen, mate - you're cack. Don't embarrass yourself. Really - you ARE that rubbish. I'll tape you, and you can listen to yourself. You are truly awful and untalented." (I figure I could make it as a confidence coach).


How have they managed to get to the point where they think they're good enough to appear on national television?!


And this clip illustrates my point beautifully. And you MUST click on this link... and yes, you WILL need to turn the sound up.


Link for truly awful X Factor audition.


Actually, maybe these people are just misguided. Their career counsellor should've guided them in to a career in comedy. I have not laughed like i did when I saw these two boys, in a long time. It's just a shame for them, that I'm laughing at them, as opposed to listening to them, foot tapping.


Though maybe I've missed the point of X Factor. Maybe it's not so much about the destination.. it's about the journey; that is, it's not about finding a singing talent, it's about listening and mocking and booing the hopefuls that just haven't realised beforehand that they're well and truly rubbish.



Saturday, 16 August 2008

Toys R us? No thanks.

My Dad is amazing with kids. My mum says that it was one of the reasons she was attracted to him, because she saw how good he was with children. He is always with the kids, and his grand kids all adore their papa.


He has an amazing knack for finding fun in everything. Bucket for mixing cement? No, no... an extension cable through the handles and draped over a tree, and you have a tree swing.


A ground sheet? No no, swung over the same tree as the bucket swing, and you have a hammock.


A petrol lawnmower? No no... a go cart. Yes - while it's revved up and cutting the grass..


A wheelbarrow? No no... a ride along for a brand new baby. In this picture, you can see he's got Eilidh to push Esther along in said wheelbarrow.

So, I've come to expect that when the girls are out in the back garden playing with papa, that they will no doubt be shunning conventional kids' toys, and will be playing with something they probably shouldn't be playing with, but under the gaming tutelage of my dad, it's ok - anything goes.

So when Hannah came in the other day REEKING of fish, of course, all fingers pointed to Dad and one of his games. And of course, I was right. (My suspicions were confirmed when Eilidh came in to grass him up... she's my little snitch.) He had gone to Asda to get a couple of whole fish, so he could bring them back for the girls to play with. Eilidh being my clean child, turned her nose up in disgust (and the bogging smell) and left Hannah and her cousin Leah, to play with Flounder et al.

They were gutting the fish, and then found great delight in amusing themselves with just the heads and tails. They even found a puddle of water to paddle in, and to plop the heads and tails in to. Macabre? I think so. I don't find a fish's eye particularly enjoyable to poke at. I don't see the attraction with a tail floating in a mucky puddle of water. I don't like my hands being anywhere near a fish's entrails.

But the kids loved it! And my dad knew that they would. He knows that they like being swung around, and they don't care that it's in a cement bucket. He knows that fish are interesting to kids cos they're squidgy and gross. That's why he's great with kids. He knows what they like. Maybe he's just a kid at heart. But whatever the reason - Papa is the kids' McGyver. He could fashion a whole play park from a discarded box of matches and a hedge strimmer.

And no doubt tomorrow will bring more of the same. We're going round for Sunday dinner. Fish pie is on the menu. Yum...

Eh.... hold on....!

Wednesday, 13 August 2008

The chasm of no return

For some reason, my cleavage seems to attract all the wrong attention. And by attention, I actually mean objects, paraphernalia, foodstuff, junk.

Hannah thought it would be funny to pop a figure of Noah's wife down there.. the ark just wasn't good enough for her (the wife... do we know her name?), but the dark depths of my chest was a better homestead it would seem.

Then she thought it a cosy place to keep her hands warm. She had eaten an ice pole (despite the horrific weather) and her little mitts sought respite between the ladies.

I'm surprised that she was able to get her figurine and her hands out whole and unscathed. Other things have not been so lucky.

There was the time that I thought I had lost my mobile phone. I had stuffed it betwixt the ladies cos I had my hands full when trying to get in to the car, and then forgot about it. It wasn't until a couple of hours had passed that I realised that it was still there, struggling for a reception.

I've been known to keep not only notes, but bank cards down there, when I've wanted to travel light and gone to the shops without my purse. The problem arose when I had to keep my change somewhere... It was uncomfortable and gave me a bizarre shape.

I've also transported stuff down there without me realising. One night, getting ready for bed, I took off the ol' over the shoulder boulder holder, and a WHOLE tortilla chip fell on to the floor. Cool original, if you're wondering... as I had... hahaha.

Hair bobbles, cereal, a necklace and a button have been some of the other random things that I've come across when retiring at the end of the day.

Now, I'm certainly not gloating about the fact that my chest could probably hold a joey as well as it's adult mother. It's not something to shout about, indeed, probably something to talk to a plastic surgeon about. But maybe I could do something useful with it. I could make it as a drugs mule, without having to carry anything internally. I could be used as a remote control holder/magazine rack and could sit at the end of the sofa. I could help at parties and other gatherings by holding half an orange with cocktail sticks spiked with cubed cheese and pickled onions. I'd gladly accept more suggestions..

I'm off to bed. And to rake through the bounty that no doubt the ladies will offer.

Tuesday, 12 August 2008

What? I'm old?!

I'm 32. I don't feel like I'm old, but certain things remind me of my advancing years. I was just talking to a friend about being old and looking it... and I'm both those things. I look in the mirror and can see the lines and wrinkles that all those adverts are banging on about. I had to dye my hair to cover all the grey ones that were coming in. And in evening, all I want to do is sit with my feet up.

I know I'm not over the hill... yet. I know I'm not a total old codger, but I know i'm fast approaching it. I do old people things.. like when I'm at a checkout, and the bill is say, £12.32, I'll ask if the girl (cos they usually are girls... and that makes me feel old in and of itself) if she wants the 32p "tae help wi' yer change". And I make small talk with people in waiting rooms. The weather is always a good topic of conversation and if it's a rainy day I'll complain to these strangers that I'm annoyed that I couldn't get my washing hung up outside. And I always insist on having the radio turned down when we're in the car... I don't like the loud noise. And I get excited by cooking appliances. My dad gave me a slow cooker for my birthday this year and i was over the moon.

And I think about when I was young. And sentences like that one make me sound old too.. But I think about when I was a teenager, and how that doesn't seem like long ago! I think about my bobbed hair and home-perm. And my jewellery courtesy of Razzle Dazzle. And all the church dances I used to go to, with my hair frizzing and my jewels jangling as I tried in vain to do the runing man. And doing percentages with my name and a boy's name to see how much we would be in love (FYI - Robbie loves me infinitley...;))

In those days, I wasn't concerned about aging skin, or grey hair and if I'd had £12.32 i would've been quite happy. Halfords I think just about paid me that a week. Basses. Ok - maybe a bit more. But not much.

But maybe when I'm 50, I'll look back to this time and think fondly of it and think how young i was and how few grey hairs I had and how those wrinkles were just laughter lines, and those conversations with strangers, just me being pleasant...

Whatever! I'm not 50 yet - so all my previous feeling still stand. I'm an old hag :)

Friday, 8 August 2008

I've found the answer!


I'm a bit of a freak. Cue snide remarks and knowing smirks. I aspire to great things. I want to have a ridiculously clean house. I want an offwhite carpet throughout, that has a deep pile, so that when you hoover it, it makes track marks. I want beautiful cushions on my sofas that aren't used to balance a dinner plate on, or heaven forbid, used to support you back when sitting. I want them purely for aesthetic purposes, to lie big and plump in specific corners of the couch. I want the bathroom never to be used, and constantly smelling of disinfectant, with a fluffy white hand towel that stays on the towel rail and is never used as a makeshift bath mat. I want the beds to be made all the time - I mean, what's wrong with sleeping on the floor? I hear it's good for your back.. it's a win win, really. I want a laundry room that is kept separate from the house, so that I need never see any washing, and I want 6 oompa loompas to wash, iron and put away all the laundry that seems to magically appear every 5 minutes.


But, until I have all those things, I've found a solution to the never ending tedium that is the housework. Up until now, I've struggled to achieve any kind of decent, presentable home. I've at least come to terms with the fact that as long as I live with Robbie and the ladies, I have NO chance of achieving the kind of orderly home I aspire to. And I'm quite happy to live alongside these lovely people, so that's ok.


The solution is getting up at 5.30am. Extreme? Yes. But it's the only time that the house is quiet and child free. I can get on with things, without a little person hanging on my leg/chest/hair/... (NOT chesthair... thank you...) And there's something magical about having some time in the day all to yourself.


Of course, the alternative solution, and the one that's probably not so extreme, is to get off my heaving ass in the evening after the ladies go to bed. But I'm afraid that's just not possible. The lure of the couch and my dirty cushions and tv covered in fingerprints is just too strong to resist..

Thursday, 7 August 2008

The unblinking eye of judgement

So, you'll know that I have three kids. Eilidh (5), Hannah (2) and Esther (4 and a half months). There are a few battles raging right now. No, I'll rephrase that, so I don't sound so negative. There are a few challenges facing both Hannah and Esther right now. Hannah and her personal demon - the toilet. But more about that another time... and Esther and a lovely bottle. Lovely to me, but pure evil, it would seem, to her.

Esther is a boob baby. And, she is a fat baby. So, as you can imagine, she feeds a lot. She's not called Her Royal Fatness for no reason. I have to get her on to a bottle before she drains my very essence, my will to live. Bottle to me=freedom. Bottle to Esther=pure filth.

The thing is, I'm all for the pros of having a breast fed baby. Certainly you're told often enough and loud enough that 'breast is best'. Though, there are other things to consider. Like two other kids that know that when you are feeding the baby, it renders you completely unable to control them. They know that you can't chase, scold, chasten, break up fights, or get them out of the cupboards. So this is where the evil eye comes in to play.

The Evil Eye. The Unblinking Eye of Judgement. It's the look that says, "don't you dare". It's the look that says "unhand your sister's toy/hair/neck or else there will be trouble". Then what should happen is that peace again should be restored. One should stare, with the whole iris showing, as much white of the eye on display and gaze unwavering.

Yes.. as I said - what should happen is that peace again is restored, with the ladies bowing to the eye and obeying it's subliminal chastening message. But, because these wily kids know I can't go anywhere when there's a baby attached, my threatening eye means nothing to them at all. In fact, they're almost mocking of my steely stare (certainly more mocking since the time I was staring so much that my contact lens popped out my eye and I lost my nerve and just laughed). And so now I'm sure they wait til I'm sitting with the baby before they plan their assault. And so bedlam is all around me, as I sit, helpless.

So - the battle rages on.. Esther will have to take a ruddy bottle. And I shall have to reclaim my place as 'she who must be obeyed'.

Wednesday, 6 August 2008

The Bee Gees.. Magic or what?!


While listening to some random music channel, whilst trying to look up talks on the internet for my talk in church on Sunday (ok - so I was on Facebook and looking at the cupcakes on Martha Stewarts site) the Brothers Gibb (capitals used because I think they've earned it) appeared and were singing alongside the all too skinny Celine Dion.

These blokes are magic, to put it bluntly. And dare I say..attractive?! Well, all except the one with the skinniest face and the biggest teeth. OK - so I reckon I actually fancy the lead singer. And when I think of their video for Stayin' Alive and those trousers.. hehehehe

And yes, I do appreciate their musical abilities. As long as it's accompanied with one their videos..


Aww.. my own wee blog

So... I've set this blog page up.. Now I must try and get myself a life, or at least learn to lie, so that I can fill this space with interesting tales of my days and witty anecdotes to my life's experiences. We'll see... :)