Monday, 28 December 2009

Pipes of Peace? Not in this hoose.

So - when I look on Facebook, and other blogs, I see cute pics of families gathered, smiling, laughing, enjoying the occasion that is Christmas. I see darling little faces, full of wonderment and surprise - pictures that would make the heart melt.

Yeah. So - here's a snippet of our Christmas. Competitiveness and screaming. You'll notice I said snippet. Cos even a 5 minute segment of video footage would have been too heinous.

But, there also comes a feeling of satisfaction with this. Cos I'm a real Scrooge. So, to know that Christmas Day was full of arguments and screaming children, makes me feel justified in my feelings toward Christmas! Hahaha.. I'm laughing, but I'm being serious.

Ok - So I can't get the video thingy to work... so here's a link instead!

Thursday, 5 November 2009

Who the Fawkes that?!

Remember, remember, the fifth of November.

I'd like to tell you why, but i can't be bothered, so click this link and read for yourselves.

Eilidh was excited about having a Bonfire night 'celebration'. She loves thinking that everything is a celebration. We've just finished with our Halloween celebrations, now our Guy Fawkes celebrations, and soon we'll have Christmas celebrations. She is a girl who loves any excuse for a party. *dreading her teenage years...*

So, as we were about to brave the cold and wave a couple of meagre, but obligatory sparklers in the air, she asked me about Guy Fawkes.

E: "Mummy - who is Guy Fawkes?"

Me: "He was a man who wanted to blow up the Houses of Parliament."

E: "Where's that?"

Me: "In London. It's where they decide all the rules and laws for our country." (Give me a break - we were trying to get out the door, in time to 'celebrate'.. this wasn't the time for a lesson in politics. Ok - so I was giving her a brush off statement.)
E: "Did he have a strong breath?"
................................................................

OK - so maybe more lessons in politics, history and the english language are needed. And less stories about the Three Little Pigs.






Don't ask.... Hannah likes to celebrate Guy Fawkes night, by holding a Sally head....


Tuesday, 20 October 2009

I bet Heidi Klum has the same problem...

"So - I was getting dressed this morning. In front of an unwanted audience. All the girls were playing on my bed. It's now at a stage where i try and dress like I'm in a public place - you know, trying to dress while stilll holding a towel. They judge me. Seriously.

Hannah - 'Mummy, why are your pom poms so big? Cos you have to feed all the children?'

Eilidh - 'Mumma (I don't know why the hell she calls me this, but she does. Hopefully it's a phase that she will grow out of), why are your pom poms so floppy? Is it cos you're so tired?

Well. I apparently have to provide succor to children all over the world, and the resulting droopiness of my boobs is proportionate to my exceeding tiredness. Another thing I've learned is that all children will need to be banished from my room while I am changing. Cos my self esteem can't take it anymore."

Monday, 31 August 2009

What? So I'm not Nigella?!

So... The girls have been watching Tinkerbell, the movie. And they're now obsessed with finding out what their talents are (watch the movie. I'm not explaining it.) Eilidh says her talent's reading. Hannah's talent is fashion (in that she likes dressing up like princesses, i think..) And Esther's talent is eating. (These talents were given out by the girls, by the way - not me. Just in case you're wondering).

Anyway.. they also said Robbie's talent was to be loving. Aww... so nice. And true.

And that my talent was "cooking".

Now - I know they were struggling to think of a talent for me. Because even I was.

And I really knew that my talent wasn't cooking. It was confirmed to me, when I'd made fish cakes for the girls, and they didn't eat them. Unusual? No, not so much. So I turfed them out on the back lawn for the birds to eat. A dirty big seagull came down and gobbled a few of them up.

Then hacked them straight back up. And I swear it shivered in disgust.

Though, every cloud has a silver lining.

Cos a magpie came along and pecked away at the seagull's regurgitated offering.

Wednesday, 12 August 2009

Visiting Hours.

If you're ever in the neighbourhood, you're more than welcome to drop by. Most of the time, the kids will be dressed and groomed. Most of the time the house will be relatively clean and tidy. Most of the time, my hair will not resemble a burst couch. Most of the time I won't be wearing a t shirt with dried snot on it. Most of the time there won't be a bunch of paraplegic Bratz dolls lying all over the floor, their dismembered feet stashed in to their party tour bus. Most of the time there won't be washing slung over clothes horses trying to get dried inside, cos it's so wet and miserable outside that I have a backlog of washing to do (thus the snotty t shirt). Most of the time when I hear a knock at the door, my blood doesn't run cold, hoping against hope that one of the neighbours are coming to drop by for a friendly chat. Most of the time, when I hear a knock at the door, I don't frantically think, how am I going to freeze time, so that I can at least straighten my hair, chip off the snot, give the Bratz dolls the ability to walk again, tidy away the washing and rustle up some tasty treats?


But, I can't freeze time. And it seems to be the case that neighbours have a sixth sense about the state of me and my house. I think they lie in wait. I think they choose their moment. I think the have planners on their walls, that mark out the times that I'm most likely to be at my least presentable and most vulnerable. And then they strike. With a rat-a-tat-tat, and a (well disguised) friendly "hello", they swoop in for the kill, and worse yet - the judgement. The eyes sweeping across the battlefield of fallen Bratz, their killing field - a floor littered with hair elastics and dust bunnies, their gaze only to be broken by my jarring appearance. Not too unlike Vivienne Westwood...


My attempt at nonchalance is my only way out. And my gratitude that trashy daytime TV wasn't on. Just to complete the heinous picture.


So. If you want to come by. Sure. But, please. At least give me a heads up. At least give me time to sort out the barnet and sweep my manky floor and threaten the kids with no TV for a week should any bad behaviour present itself.


That will be all. I shall now relive the horror over and over til I feel suitably moved to sweep up.


Thursday, 28 May 2009

Soul Glo

My little bubba, Esther has the funkiest (and most unruly) hairdo ever. It just grows bigger, instead of longer. I thought I'd just share a picture with y'all so you can see just how huge this wig is. And if anybody has any pointers (or hair bobbles, clamps, staples, glue) on how to get this 'fro under control, I'm all ears.

Thursday, 7 May 2009

Seriously, people. Sort it out.

One of my pet peeves (of which there are many. I'm sure I've covered a few in this blog, but I'll cover another one right now) is spelling. Or spelling mistakes, to be exact. Let's not discuss 'text language' cuz tht's a whle utha sbject.

We took the girls out to a country park the other day. They love it there. It's pretty rubbish, to be honest. They've got a few animals. Farmyard animals. And a couple of fish, which I'm convinced aren't even real. But the place is free, and it's got a swing park so I don't mind going so much. And there's also a vending machine filled with chocolate bars, so another bonus i suppose.. even though every bar of chocolate it spits out in to my grubby mitts is about twice the price it should be. And then THAT kind of makes me mad, cos it highlights gaps in my preparedness. I always kick myself for not having enough forethought to bring plenty of treats and snacks for everybody - namely me. Though maybe even if my bag was bulging with goodies, I'd still be lured by the sight of a vending machine that promises chilled chocolate, whose wrappers are unspoiled form leaky juice cups and stray Quaver crisps...

So we go to the country park, and I quietly congratulate myself on getting the kids out of the house and exposing them to nature and fresh air and exercise. They always want to go straight to the swings, but i make them 'appreciate' the animals first.

They used to have a donkey called Fred. He has been replaced with another donkey, whose name escapes me. If you really need to know this finer detail of the story, email me and I'll have a think about it and send you a reply. They say he was replaced cos he wasn't well. I think it was because he had no social graces. He was always a 'happy' donkey. That's all I'm saying. If you're needing to know the finer details of what I mean by 'happy', drop me an email and I'll reply.

They have a couple of chickens. As in a couple - two. They do have a few piglets. Though my little city girls weren't too happy about the smell that was emitting from them and their pen. Cleanses the airways and unblocks the sinuses, I say. They also have a few sheep, that I'm convinced are of the devil. You can see it in their eyes.

Anyhoo. Back to the topic in hand. Spelling mistakes. I can overlook typing errors, but not obvious mistakes. And how come people can't use spell check!?

Here's what we saw on our trip to the country park.



The thing is... this was obviously typed out using some kind of word document. Why not use spell check? And the fact that it's made it from computer, to printer, to laminator, to fence post without anybody else seeing it and correcting it, is unbelievable. So unbelievable I had to take a picture of it.

I don't know why I get so ticked off with spelling mistakes, but I'm sure that if I were to dig deep enough, I'm sure it's because of a one Mrs Forsyth, my primary 4 teacher. She made me stand in front of the class, and spell out to her the different ways of spelling there, their and they're, and how to use them appropriately. I was mortified. Mainly because the little guy I had a crush on, laughed at me. Him and his wooden pencil case with the sliding ruler... I was totally crushed. But I made damned sure that I learned how to spell, just so I would never have to go through the experience of being ridiculed by a little punk with a crappy pencil case. (yeah - in retrospect, he was a punk.)

Anyway. I feel a lot better now that I've got that off of my heaving chest. I shall now spell check this entry, in case my point comes back to bite me in the ass...


Wednesday, 29 April 2009

More staying power than Cher, it would seem.

So I'm kind of annoyed at myself.

I'm really not a fickle kind of person. I usually say I'll do one thing, and I do it. I stick to my guns. Though on the point of the blog, I was sticking to my guns in spite of myself. I missed this stupid blog. I missed writing in it. Even though I write a load of cack, I still missed it. I missed the cack. But I'd made a decision, right? And the thing is, it's only been.. what... a month?! Sheesh. I need to take a long hard look at myself. Obviously my word means nothing. If I say I'm going to do something, it means I'll do it for a little while, that I'm not in it for the full stretch.

Well - now that I've cleared that up... my word means nothing, I have no staying power, I talk cack, and I am fickle.

So - what's been going on in the past month?

Really not a lot.... I've decided I'd quite like to do the half marathon in September. (See what I did there? I didn't say I was definitely going to do it, in case I change my mind... I've learned some harsh lessons today, don't forget.)

I've been spending way too much time on Facebook. At least I can admit it. It's the first step in overcoming this addiction - recognising the problem exists. But notice how i haven't committed to cut down my fb time? I'm merely recognising the problem exists. And don't tell me that I'm the only one with this addiction? Jill?


My hair has plunged new depths in helmet-ness. I look like Ulysses 31. Google him. I used to have a thing for him. Is that weird to fancy a cartoon? I also quite liked Lion-O. My hair 'style' has also lended itself to some Thundercat styling too this past month.


I've found that Asda sells onion bhaiji's. Good ones. This is worthy of a blog entry. They are magical. I could eat them all day long. I don't though... purely for social reasons... ahem.

Anyway. Already I've spent too long on this post. My facebook status needs updating.

So.. am I allowed back?

Thursday, 23 April 2009

Emmm...

I miss my blog.


There. I said it.

Friday, 3 April 2009

So long, farewell.

And whatever the rest of the lyrics of that Rogers and Hammerstein favourite are... Cos they are my sentiments.

So long and farewell. For this shall be the last entry to my blog.


And now I'm busy thinking about The Sound of Music, and how great it would be to have your kids respond to the toot of a whistle. Hmm... how to implement... how to implement... And I liked how they were all dressed in Sailor outfits. I do like my kids to match whenever possible... And I would love to have the skills to make clothes out of curtains. Or just to be able to make simple pencil pleat curtains would be good too..


Anyway... back to the blog... or not.


I bid you all a good night and farewell. Thanks for stopping by. And I shall drop in on you all from time to time... like a good fairy, not in a creepy stalker kind of way.


Night night.


Claire

Monday, 23 March 2009

My baby. My chubby little baby.

My baby girl, Esther turned a year old last week. A year!? A year since the horrific birth? A year since the mastitis? A year since the trying to quench her insatiable appetite every hour? A year since I made the resolve that my loins would be fruit free from now on?


And yes, people... I'm going to tell you a little bit about the birth. But nothing yucky, so don't worry. But I want you all to know, so that you can send me medals and trophies to highlight how good and fantastic I was to give birth a year ago.


Esther was overdue. I had to be induced. i felt kind of jipped about that, cos she was my third. Aren't the second, third (or heaven forbid.. fourth?) meant to come early, or at least on time?! Anyway - she was induced 10 days late. It was rubbish.


........................................................................................................................................................................



OK - so I had typed a whole load of stuff about the birth there, and I felt better after having typed it. So much better. But it was boring and I'm not sure anybody wanted to hear about it. So i deleted it. Anyway. Put it this way... Esther was a horrible birth. No pain medication. 10lbs baby. No husband... He'd buggered off to lie down in the waiting room. He wasn't feeling well. AND ROBBIE, DON'T BE ANNOYED THAT I TYPED THAT. I WRITE THE TRUTH. If you want to let your version of events known, you can leave a comment.


And I know that childbirth is hardly a walk in the park, but really... don't make me EVER go through that again. (By the way, Robbie... if you're still reading this, our bunk beds arrive next week... just to make certain...)


So - we all know that I'm selfish. I don't mind admitting that. I mean, this was meant to be a post about my baby turning a year old. And instead, I made it all about me and the hard time I had delivering her.


But that's just the way it goes. It's all about me. All of the time. And can I just say.. I make really good babies. I mean - look at her. She's booteefoo. I really am good.



Ps. Thanks for visiting, Debbie and Kim.. ;)

Thursday, 5 March 2009

Cheesy or cute?

OK, so maybe it's a bit of a cultural thing, but here in the UK, we don't do high fives and huddles and teamwork chants etc. As a matter of fact, when I went to be a counsellor for EFY in the States, I had a really hard time doing all of these things, cos basically, we Brits just don't 'do' stuff like that. I remember trying to encourage a group of teenage kids to do some chant that had something to do with a ticking time bomb.. of love. I can't even remember it cos it went to against the grain that I've tried to block it from my memories. Something to do with being friends, sharing love, teamwork, tick tick boom.... I really can't remember how it went. Thank goodness.

Anyway. Suffice it to say that we Brits are less enthusiastic about sharing the love and more reserved about chanting about positivity and teamwork. Or so I had thought.

My girls have taken to high fiving each other, and me, whenever they do something well.

"Hey Hannah - you tidied away your toys! High Five!" (OK - so maybe this one IS high-five worthy... cos it doesn't happen very often...)

"Eilidh - you did your homework! High Five!" (yeah - but she HAS to do her homework... so why celebrate it?)

"Mummy - we ate our dinner! High Five!" (OK - but my cooking is amazing, so why shouldn't you have eaten it all? And why are you making me high five you both when you only ate all your dinner cos there were no visible vegetables on your plates?)

Anyway. I can almost make my peace with the high fives. But the group huddle thing they've started doing is what I find most unnerving. They put their little hands in front of them, on top of one other's hands and shout "teamwork". That's what it's called, right? A huddle? I don't even know the correct term for it. Anyway.... whatever it's called - they're doing it! In fact just before bed time tonight, the word 'teamwork' was being replaced by rude toilet words, so I wasn't as worried as I was before.

So - as is also the Brits' way - who do I look to, to blame (we LOVE to look to who's to blame. It's never our fault.) for all this jovial camaraderie and general joie de vivre? I have a feeling it's something to do with High School Musical, or Hannah Montana, or some other show like that. But I'm not entirely comfortable blaming shows that brought us Zac Efron... and Billy Ray Cyrus. High five, Billy Ray.... high five. Miaow.

Sunday, 1 March 2009

Why I've been AWOL.

So. I've not been blogging. Cos I've been really busy. Doing three things, mainly.



1. I've been thinking about how I would spend my millions if I were to win the lottery. Which is funny cos I don't ever play the lottery, yet that important fact doesn't seem to hamper my dream that I would in fact have a pretty good chance of winning.



I would go on a cruise with Robbie (if Fabio weren't available). I guess we'd have to take the kids. I'd take a nanny though (who no doubt would sell her story to the papers in a couple of years time, and say what a bitch I was and how she couldn't bear to live in my house cos I kept it so clean and tidy all the time it made her feel uncomfortable. And yes - the papers would print her story cos we'd be really famous for being so rich.)

Anyway - I'd take a cruise, bugger off all round the world and see everything worth seeing, and then I'd buy a nice wee house somewhere sunny, and buy myself jewels. Big jewels. Like the kind that Richard Burton bought for Elizabeth Taylor. HUGE. And I wouldn't do any more housework. Well - I wouldn't be able to lift my hands due to the sheer enormity of the diamonds adorning my knuckles.



2. I've been looking at maps. I'm a geek. I LOVE maps. Even when I was wee, I thought it was amazing to look at maps and see where I lived in relation to everywhere else. And I LOVE Google maps. I stumbled upon it about 8 months ago, and was LOVING the street views. Seriously - if you haven't looked... you need to. Magic. It's like you're walking down the street, and you can look all about... And I also came across another website that showed a bird's eye view of my wee house and I got the biggest thrill when I looked in to my back garden and saw that I had a washing hanging out to dry. I could see my laundry, flapping in the wind. And then I realised that I wasn't only a geek for loving maps, but that I had no life. Cos if you feel a thrill seeing your washing hanging on a washing line on the world wide web, then there's clearly something amiss.



3. I've been endeavoring to get myself a life. Cos daydreaming about having diamond encrusted hands and being followed by the paparazzi, while looking at maps clearly is evidence of someone needing some interests.

Tuesday, 10 February 2009

Great Expectations


I'm trying to figure out where I stand on Martha Stewart. Yes - this is a really important topic to have an opinion about. A few years ago, I absolutely adored her. I saw her for the first time on an Oprah show. She was telling the ever-clapping audience how to fold fitted sheets. It was amazing. Cos really - does anyone know how to do it properly? Apart from me, having been tutored by Ms Stewart? She also showed the adulating audience how to fold towels properly and that when people come to stay at your house, you should put a bale of towels in their room, tied up like a parcel, using a length of raffia or pretty ribbon.


After the show had finished, I tipped out my airing cupboard, and refolded all my towels and sheets. And the finished result was quite amazing. It was beautiful. A sight to behold. And I beheld it often, as every time I walked by the cupboard, I had to open it and take a peek at the folded gorgeousness of it all. Someone from work had come by, and even commented on my cupboard and array of beautifully folded towels... I had 'accidentally' forgotten to close it over...

Martha had truly shown me a thing of beauty. And it was all to be found in the fold of a towel.


So I became a fan. I started looking at her housekeeping 101 ideas, and started doing things round our home -'cos Martha said'. I started looking at recipes 'cos Martha said' and looked at beautiful craft ideas 'cos Martha said'. I was easily moulded and was willing to be nurtured by the stern hand that was Martha.


And then I had kids.


Not that I blame my kids for everything that's gone awry in my life, but let's face it - with kids running around, there's less time to decoupage that mirror and fold the towels neatly (at least they're washed!) and spin my own wool.


And now, I think I'm beginning to resent her. Because she makes me feel guilty and useless. I logged on to her homepage and was looking at the cupcake contest winners.


I found that after looking through all these cute cupcakes, I started to judge Martha, and her flying monkeys that had made all these cupcakes. She has been sent to test and to try me. They have been sent to make me feel like the cupcakes that I'd BOUGHT were not good enough. They have been sent to make me feel that it was wrong to convince my kids that they were princess fairy cakes because the cakes IN THE PACKET had a blob of pink icing on them. They have been sent to make me feel bad because I broke my Magimix in a fit one time, and so therefore if I were to make cakes, I'd have to make them by hand, and that's just not my idea of fun.


And my airing cupboard? Now when I look in it, I'm just glad that my towels are clean and smell fresh. They still get folded the Martha way - it's hard to escape her clutches completely, but it's not a cupboard that I would want anyone to see.


So I think I'll start my own uprising against Martha.


I want to live in a world where bought cupcakes ARE acceptable. I want to live in a world where I don't have to throw dinner parties every night where I'm worrying about my tarnished silver. I want to live in a world where I'm not worried about having to design my own tablecloths and napkins. Or, in fact, own them.


Who's with me? Please... someone. Someone tell me it's simply not natural to live a Martha-led life. Otherwise I'll need to go soothe myself in a packet of bought fairy cakes...


Saturday, 31 January 2009

You know you want to know even more about me...

I'm totally cheating for this post. I was tagged to do this in Facebook (something that I'm totally addicted to..) and I thought I'd also post it over here too. If anyone is feeling like me, as in you're just feeling a bit sort on inspiration, or can't be bothered putting together a real post, then feel free to tag yourself. In fact, consider yourselves ALL tagged. I'd like to learn more about you all!


1. I'm the only girl in my family to have a middle name... which dad used to say was the name of an ex-girlfriend. He was lying, so the name stayed.

2. I don't have any toe nails on my big toes.

3. I steal Robbie's climbing socks when my feet are cold.

4. I was Head Girl at my high school. Which actually means nothing...

5. I have naturally curly hair that I straighten every single day.

6. My first job was working on a Saturday in Halfords. It was rubbish.

7. I was going to be called Samantha instead of Claire.

8. I still have a baby tooth. Not in my pocket - in my face.

9. I have to read the news online so that I can pick and choose
what news I hear about because I find a lot of news too harrowing.

10. I love makeover shows. The make up ones. I love watching people getting their hair and make up done.


11. Robbie is the one person that can make me laugh the WHOLE day long. Even if I’m in a stinking mood.

12. I’m often in a stinking mood. But I believe it’s my divine right as a female to act like a lunatic and be generally crazy at least one week out of a month. And not be questioned on it, or have it suggested that I might be a psycho hose beast.

13. I’m convinced my driving instructor was a pervert.

14. I love red hair. My ideal man would have (hehe… cos I’m still convinced I’ll meet him;)) red hair, a hairy chest, freckly forearms and an irish accent. Perhaps someone like Robert Redford…. Yum

15. I’m no good at maths. I actually feel my mind shutting down when I hear a maths problem..

16. After I've running, my legs look like corned beef hash; all red and blotchy.

17. I don’t like running.

18. I HATE forwarded emails. The ones where you need to send on to 10 friends or else something bad will happen, and is full of crappy pictures of ‘smiling’ kittens etc..

19. I have a rubbish taste in music. As in, I couldn't tell you what was in the charts, or who sings what these days. Though I do have an impressive back catalogue of Simply Red and Michael Bolton albums. Some even on tape.

20. I have to sleep on the left side of the bed.

21. I’d love to have a touch of OCD, so that my house would be tidy all the time. That or a maid.

22. I first started plucking my eyebrows at the age of 12. Until that time, I couldn’t see.

23. If I’m in TKMaxx for longer than ten minutes, I need to go to the loo. Urgently. I don’t know why. There’s no scientific reason behind it. All I know is, if I go in there, I have to know where all the exits are.

24. I have really wide feet and have to get most of my shoes from the fat shop. Or wear guys’ shoes. My trainer’s are men’s shoes, cos the ladies’ ones are just too flippin’ narrow. The Prince would never have been able to jam the glass slipper on to my huge trotter.


25. I have social tourettes, in that I cannot bear silence in conversations, so I end up filling all the silences with inane chatter, and I can’t stop myself. I end up saying some of the weirdest stuff, and in my head, I’m telling myself to shut up, but I just can’t. Just so you all know. I’m not nuts. Well…

Go on.... tag yourself!

Wednesday, 28 January 2009

sticky situation #548


I was at the gym (again.... but it doesn't seem to be making the blindest bit of difference. I just go to ogle the guys. Seriously. Even the ugly guys that sweat far too much. I'm no respecter of persons. Even the weird guy with what I'm sure is a glass eye. Does he keep it in his head the whole night? Does he take it out and put it in a glass of water, like old folk do with their false teeth? Anyway - he gets ogled too, but not cos I fancy him - just out of morbid curiosity...) last night. And I had just stood on the treadmill, and I got that big gurgly tummy feeling, that prompted me to quickly gather my things, and make a quick trip to the can. After all, I wouldn't want to start running, and then 2 minutes in, have to come off cos i needed the loo...


Hold on. That sounds like the perfect ruse. I'll need to use that excuse in the future.


Anyway. Went to the loo. Did the business. Then reached up the toilet roll dispenser. And my searching fingers started feeling about madly for a single morsel of toilet roll. Only to find nothing.


Schoolgirl error. Why didn't I check that this very necessary item was installed in this one cubicle? Now what to do? There was someone else in the cubicle next to me... do I call on her to pass some underneath? No - I couldn't do that. She would know that I.... needed some. Am I that much of a prude!?


I waited and considered my options.
Option one - just drip dry.
Option 2 - just pull' em up and be on my way. Boys do it all the time, after all.
Option 3 - wait til the coast is clear, keep trousers in situ and keeping the same stance, shuffle in to the next cubicle to hopefully find some blessed loo paper.


Well - it could only be option 3. I had to be quick. These were open plan toilets/changing room. Anyone could come in. My heart was pounding (probably a lot more than if i were on the treadmill, so i was happy to be using up some calories in this hour of need). Could I make it in time, what if there was no paper in the next cubicle? What if there was none at all?


I unlatched the door, and quickly waddled in to the next chamber to find the sweet sight of an great abundance of toilet paper. How small things can be seem so great.



Well, the paper was used. And used.


Back in to the gym. I was just about to hop back on that bleeding treadmill when one of the gym buffs stopped me, bent down and pulled a bit of loo roll from the bottom of my foot.


"You've got a little something stuck to your shoe there..."


But I was all out of shame. And that's why I can blog about it now. No. Shame.

Friday, 23 January 2009

Sunshine from Tigger... and me being smelly

This is a quick post, cos it's late at night and I REALLY need to go for a shower. I mean - really. My body emits an odour that I'm sure is harmful to the environment. That's one thing that I have a 'phobia' about. I'd hate for anyone to think "Wow - she's GORGEOUS, but how come she STINKS?!" OK... maybe not the gorgeous it - especially cos I have this ongoing battle with my barnet, and my face looks the colour of corned beef hash... but hey - I've been hacking up a lung on the treadmill!

But, yeah - I wouldn't like to be going round and for people to be thinking behind my back... "Whoaf... ever heard of antiperspirant?"

Anyway. I was over at one of my friend's blogs and she's doing a giveaway. I usually don't enter giveaways or competitions, cos I don't ever win. Probably cos i don't enter them? I have a very pessimistic view about my chances, or my luck in these sorts of things. But, I've decided to throw my hat in to the ring. I'm feeling lucky! (and feeling yucky - the shower REALLY is calling me..) And here's a link to her post, so that you can enter too, if you like! But if you win, you need to share with me.

Especially if the winner gets some antiperspirant....

Sunday, 18 January 2009

I knew how to attract the boys;)

Seriously? Not really.



I'm sitting here watching Wayne's World and I've just seen the scene with Alice Cooper belting out some tune about Frankenstein. I love that film. I think I went to see it at the cinema when it first came out. Anyway. So I was looking at Alice Cooper's leather trousers. Yowsers. They were tight. Which may have been more appealing if someone attractive were wearing them, you know, like any one of the guys that I really fancy.



But they reminded me of the time that I had a pair of trousers like that. Only I couldn't afford leather ones. My measly part time job (I was a checkout girl at ASDA, though I was multi-skilled - I could even pack rolls in the bakery section, thank you very much) didn't pay me the funds necessary to buy an attractive pair of leather trousers. But now that I think about it, what the hell was I thinking!? WHY did I want a pair in the first place!? I owned no Harley Davidson, owned no horse, and certainly wasn't an Alice Cooper fan.

But I digress. I couldn't afford leather trousers. So I bought the next best thing. PVC leather looky likey trousers. Yeah - I looked good. Especially when paired up with my high heeled silver hologram sandals.



There was one snag though. They weren't easy to wear. They had to be broken in every time they were worn. Once on, I had to stand perfectly still for about 10 minutes. I couldn't bend my knees or sit down. But once they had been broken in, they were like a second skin. Really. They were a bit tight. And once again, I'm wondering to myself... what the hell was I thinking!? My thighs are not conducive to anything skin tight. But, at the time, I thought I looked flippin' magic.



My friend and I were out one night and the PVC spray on effect trousers were out with us too. After a couple of hours dancing away, it was time to visit the loo. And here, I encountered another problem. Getting them back on. You know the scene in Friends where Ross can't get his leather (yeah - real leather) trousers back on? And he's dabbing with cold water, and lotion, and baby powder, in a vain attempt to get them back on? It's a true story. That scene spoke to me. Cos i think that scene was based on my real life experience of that night I went to the loo and was in there for about 15 minutes, waiting for my legs to cool down a bit, so I could haul the trousers back on, and begin the 10 minute warm up process again.



Though as if the experience of that happening wasn't enough, i felt I had to share the experience with a random guy. This guy i think was trying to be nice. He came up to me and said that he really liked my trousers, that it made me look sexy. I'm pretty sure he was intoxicated. Anyway... to which I responded

"yeah, I like my trousers, but they're such a pain to get in to. I've just had to struggle to get back in to them cos my legs were so sweaty, and now I'm just itchy."

Clearly I had ruined his perception of me and 'sexy' trousers. His face visibly fell and it looked like the toxic substances he'd consumed earlier in the evening were about to make a reappearance.

The trousers met their demise not long after that night. I didn't adhere to the 10 minute warming up process and tried to bend my legs to tie the buckle on my hologram shoes and they split right across the knee. I was devastated. And so was my pharmacist. Sales in Canesten went way down for her after that day.

Wednesday, 14 January 2009

Slice me open and see the venom

Really - I have discovered that this week, I'm not a very nice person. On the inside. Cos I can pretend really well to be nice. Which then tells me that I'm also two faced. Which is hardly a redeeming attribute.




I was at the gym, looking my usual terrible self. Really - I figure, I'm going to sweating my heaving ass off, there's no point in making sure my hair's sitting perfectly, and that my t-shirt's not perfectly (OK.. not at all) ironed. Cue me on the cross trainer (indeed - it makes me very cross) wondering if I may just have a heart attack. I was then wondering what I'd like to have as a 'last meal'. Yes - I'm morbid like that. But, I was on the cross trainer, thinking about delicious dinners. Can you see something wrong with this picture already!?




Anyway.. my daydream was rudely interrupted by some girl being shown by the gym instructor how to work the machines... she was new.




Girl: So I was wondering what my ideal weight should be? Cos I'm 8 and and half stone and I feel really fat.




Instructor: Well, it's a hard thing to say, it depends on a lot of factors. But looking at you, you're petite and very slim, so I would suggest that you're probably already at your ideal weight




Girl: Well I just feel sooooo fat. (pointing to ribby ribs and concave stomach). I just eat chocolate all the time, and I'm always buying packets of crisps.




Instructor: No, I think your weight is fine. Instead of looking at weight loss, you can think about healthier eating and perhaps toning up.




Girl: Yeah.. I just don't want to be coming in here with my big bum and people thinking I'm really fat.




OK, OK, OK. So. Can you imagine my thought process? Do I really need to tell you what I was thinking? Let's put it this way... I wasn't feeling sorry for this girl, that maybe she had a bad body image, or perhaps really DID think she was fat (but I really, REALLY don't think she thought that at all) or maybe she's starved of compliments at home, and has to rely on total strangers making her feel good about herself. Which are all really sad things to consider.




But as I said, I'm not really a nice person at all, so I was thinking, like a true psycho hose beast... "Shoosh. I'll show you fat. Check this patoot out. THAT'S fat!! And chocolate? You've never seen me with a selection box. And crisps? I can eat a WHOLE bag of Doritos. The bags that say they're meant for "sharing". Don't come in here with your perfect make up and size 0 touche and talk about being fat. And for my last dinner, you know what I'd have? A huge big Christmas dinner followed by a tub of ice cream, followed by various cheeses and crackers. Followed by chocolates. Followed by crisps. Followed by a stomach pump, so I could start again. Grrrr."




Told you. Pure venom inside of me. Or maybe she just caught me at a bad time. I WAS just about to have heart attack when she interrupted, after all...

Thursday, 8 January 2009

Well, it was bound to happen.

Not that long ago, it seemed that the blogging world was talking about this 'Twilight' series of books. I knew nothing about it. Then folk were queuing up in the middle of the night to get a first showing of the film. I still knew nothing about it. Then I asked my friend Jill (cos i knew she wouldn't mock the fact that I clearly had no clue as to what seemed like the whole world was talking about) about it. She just told me that it was a teenage romance book. To do with vampires.



Pfft. So what's the big deal with that? I can think of a whole load of other things that would excite me more than some plukey adolescent boy chewing on my neck. Well...only a few... I AM still a girl... ;)






Then I saw that this movie had made it over here, and there were huge posters for it everywhere. Then I really felt like a loser cos my 16 year old sister was talking about it, and i felt totally out of the game cos I had nothing to offer on the subject. And there's nothing like a 16 year old making you feel like you're a whole generation away from 'the edge'....'the pulse'...'what's hip'... or whatever the crazy kids are saying these days.




She gave me her book the other night and told me I had to read it before seeing the film. (Opinions on that one? Can't I just go see the film? Then I don't have to sue my imagination... that's hard work.) And she was quite emotional about giving her book away to me. I promised to look after it for her... weirdo.




I didn't start reading it til last night. And now I'm annoyed. Cos now i feel like I'm too late for the party! Now i can see what everyone was talking about... I've even just spent 20 minutes poring over pics on the internet of this one Edward Cullen. And you know I've changed my wallpaper on my laptop. Gone is the pic of my three gorgeous girls. Hello to one broody hunk of blood sucking, Mr Cullen.




Now don't anyone go spoiling anything for me. I've only got to the point where he starts speaking to her in class. But I plan to ignore the kids this afternoon so that I get me some Edward time.


Monday, 5 January 2009

Slave to the blog

In case any of you were wondering, (and I'd like to think that loads of you were...) I'm still here. Show of hands that thought I'd fallen off the face of the earth. No? Well... thanks for the blow to my self esteem.



Anyhoo. I've been in this love/hate relationship with my blog for the past couple of weeks. I love having a outlet and being able to type a whole load of guff on here, and for people to comment and know, or at least tell me they know how I feel. I love reading other people's blogs, and they really do make me laugh out loud and smile, and say aww.



But recently, I've felt like a bit of a slave to my blog. I've almost had 'blog suicide' on my mind. You know how when you were at school and you loved a particular subject, and then you had to write a big essay for it, and then your love diminished and instead you were left with feelings of dread, unwanted responsibility and resentment for the subject you once loved? No? Again... must just be me. But this is how I've been feeling about my blog of late.



I'd been too busy one week to type anything, and then it started playing on my mind...



"I've not typed in my blog for ages. I really ought to. Maybe I can fit it in tonight after putting the washing away.. after the gym.. after I've stuffed my face on ASDA's foamy fruits".



"It's been a wee while now.. I really OUGHT to. I'm late in typing something. It's been ages. Well, I'm not going to. Just to show that I can control myself and that I'm not a slave to my blog. How do you like them apples? I'm not going to even log on to my computer just to show that I will not be controlled by this need to write a load of cack and share it with the world. Ok - maybe not world, maybe like 10 people across the planet. But still."



"OK... it's been a wee while. I think I've shown my blog who's boss. Maybe I'll pay a wee visit. Maybe I'm sick of interacting with people in the real life world and would like to play with my friends on my blog."



Anyway. I've made a new year resolution in light of all these feelings of resentful loyalty and love/hate for my blog. I'm going to keep my blog and still update it, but maybe not so frequently.

Besides. If i spend less time on my blog, it means I'll have more time to spend on Facebook and other such worthy ventures...