The Campbell Clan

Psst!

2012-01-25T22:19:00.000Z

It's a sure sign that my blog has been well forgotten, when I couldn't even remember my blog's sign in password... hehe..

I wish i could tell you all the fantastic things that have been going on over the past.... months. But, there's nuffin' much to report. Though, I did shave my armpits last night - even though I wasn't going swimming. Hannah had the spelling word 'pit' last night and she had asked me what it was. I told her it was like a hole in the ground, or like your arm pit. I knew that I had given a satisfactory answer, when she consolidated her understanding by saying, "so i have two armpits and you have two hairy armpits?"

Wow. How to kick you when you're.... unshaven. In my defence, it's been a cold winter.

Yikes!

2011-06-07T22:15:00.000+01:00

Time goes by when you're.... doing nuffin'. 3 months since I last posted? Even I didn't know I possessed such powers of procrastination. Maybe I can put that on my list of talents. Along with my other talents - yawning, sleeping, eating, watching tv...

I'll be a while...

2011-03-07T16:05:00.000Z

As if I didn't have enough to distract me from the washing up, the laundry, the kids, the husband, the gym, the Biggest Loser on tv, my blog....

RobgotmeaBlackberry.

I shall be tweeting and facebooking it up big style. On the move. All the freakin' time.

Yusss....

Biggest Loser vs Total Loser.

2011-02-18T14:29:00.001Z

"Hi, my name is Claire Campbell and I like food. I like lots of food. Lots of crappy, fatty, wonderful food."

This would be my opening line at a FAM. Food Addict Meeting. And I'd decorate my name badge to look like a burger. To be funny. Then I'd probably get told off for not taking the meeting seriously enough. Pfft.

I think these kind of groups need to exist. Well.. maybe they kind of do. In the form of Weight Watchers classes. All we're missing is the name badges. We all talk about food, how much we love it, how much we eat, how we shouldn't eat so much, how we try to give up the bad food, how we feel bad when we don't.

Meh. I feel like I'm a lifelong member at Weight Watchers. They should give me some kind of prize for being with them for so long. Intermittently, admittedly. I think they should give me gastric band surgery, as a token of their appreciation for me supporting them for so long.

So, when I get my DIY gastric band in the post from Weight Watchers, perhaps I'll find it easier at the gym and get good results like the folk on the Biggest Loser. Perhaps then, I'll be able to lose more than 1lb per week. Perhaps I too, will find that inner voice - that I'll be able to scream like an All Black rugby player before a game. Perhaps I'll find the inner strength to cry and harness my feelings. Perhaps I'll be able to rise above the anger I feel towards everyone around me. Perhaps then I'll be able to not use food as a way of stifling my feelings.

Wait. That's not me - I just enjoy eating. I think I've been watching one too many episodes. (yes - watching them online and on Sky+ IS excessive.) And I perhaps need to realised that watching an episode IS NOT the same as going to the gym myself (it's true, Jill... sadly.)

Could someone please come and help me change the channel? I can't reach the remote for all the pies on my couch...

More like Kim and Rabbie, than Kim and Aggie…

2011-01-26T13:03:00.001Z

Apart from being HOT and with the nicest legs I’ve seen on a boy, Robbie has some other talents. (Yes – having nice legs is a talent. And he shouldn’t really hide his talents under a bushel, or in this specific case, trousers.)

He’s good at knowing when songs were released, who sang them and what he was doing at the time of their release. It’s infuriating.

He’s good at persuasion. I try to resist his persuasive arguments on any given subject, but end up realising (being duped?) he’s right. Most of the time. Being female, I reserve the right to think that I’m right all the time.

He’s very good at providing the better side of his gene pool (I say better side, cos thankfully my kids haven’t been cursed with bad eyesight or a love/obsession with football.. or any other sports for that matter). I have cute kids which I suppose I have to give him 50% credit for. So, well done to him for that. I guess it must have been very tricky for him to do.

But this other talent shines above the rest right now. I even took photographic evidence…

When Robbie cleans, he really CLEANS. I love it!

Look in the first photograph at the placing of the shampoo bottles. Arranged by height and colour. Taller ones at the back, green ones on the left.. Nice touch.

Look at the second picture. The girls’ bubble baths and shower gels are lined up and faced up. (A little retail term for ya there – where all the labels are facing out the way. )

Even Makka Pakka is perched in the corner in such a way so that he can survey the whole bathroom (that Rob had cleaned from top to bottom).

All I need now is to try and convince him to clean the bathroom while wearing shorts..

Interesting reading..

2011-01-24T00:59:00.000Z

And what makes it interesting, is that it's not my own words! ;) Have a read!

http://www.salon.com/life/feature/2011/01/15/feminist_obsessed_with_mormon_blogs/index.html

Toilet talk, potty patter, loo lingo.

2010-12-28T17:01:00.002Z

Whatever you want to call it, it’s the best kind of humour in our household. I can’t even lie and pretend we’re not ‘that’ kind of family, cos we are. If you’re looking for someone to blame or judge, then judge Robbie. He’s the patriarch, after all…
So, in light of the Campbell love for potty humour, Santa was right on the money with his gift to Eilidh.

You will notice, beneath the Whoopee Cushion (a timeless classic in all toilet humour based jokes), is a fake… number 2. It has been the hit of Christmas of 2010. It has already been used extensively and has had extended family suitably grossed out (either by the stool itself, or by our (lack of ) parenting).
OK. So I’ll redeem myself slightly. The tolie has been a great teaching tool for Esther and her potty training. Seeing that in the bottom of the potty has helped her understand that that’s where ‘those’ go…
So, if you’re looking for faecal fun, you know where to come..

Well, that's a huge noggin. That's a virtual planetoid

2010-12-17T14:10:00.001Z

A post, to keep everyone updated with the sheer width, height and circumference of Esther’s expanding ‘do’.

Compare and contrast, in the beginning, with a wee while ago, with the above, most recent shot.

Wowsers. Dianna Ross – watch out. She’s coming to take your foozy, giant hairdo crown (that’s probably expandable like the ones you used to get in Burger King, so that it’ll fit her “orange on a toothpick”.)

Remind me to tell you about the time that we lost a clasp in there. For three days.

Sure, I'll sign yer copy.

2010-12-03T12:40:00.000Z

I'm famous.

I won't even tell you what page I'm featured on, cos you'll need to have a look through this fabulous blog/magazine.

Sure I'll you remember you all... the little people. ;)

Thanks, Melissa, for inflating my already huge ego. ;)

Umm….

2010-11-16T13:10:00.001Z

What? It’s ok for your kids to do impersonations of the gay pigs from Shrek, right?

'There were three of us in this marriage, it was a bit crowded'

2010-11-06T18:14:00.001Z

..said Princess Dianna, referring to herself, Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles (now, strangely enough, the wife of Prince Charles.)

Now – I’m only using her statement to illustrate a point. Don’t go taking it literally, or in the way she had intended.

I don’t have a Camilla Parker Bowles. I have something else. Something I can’t compete with. Something more confusing than a woman’s mind. Something that can be called beautiful but is also ugly. Something that leaves me wondering what all the fuss is about.

Glasgow Rangers.

I once (foolishly) asked Robbie if he loved me more than the Gers. Even though I knew the answer. But how can you make a man choose between you and his lifelong obsession, his family instilled love for his team and the game, passed down from generation to generation of Campbell men? His very raison d’etre?

You can’t.

Though one day, he did tell me that he loved me AS much as the Gers. That, in my book, was the same as telling me that he loved me to the moon and back. And that will do.

Go Campbell, go Campbell...

2010-10-19T18:05:00.000+01:00

"Hey! Whatcha doin' today?"

"Hey, big sister! We're going out!"

"Hey - where's Ly-eesha?"

"She not going anywhere cos she's got no clothes."

"But she's only a baby."

"Yeah, girl! She can wear high heels!

My girls are aged 7 and under. They are Scottish. Yet, them playing a game of Bratz, leaves me confused and slightly disturbed.

Calling each other by their family relation.
Having people called Ly-eesha.
Going around with hardly any clothes, if at all.
Calling each other 'girl'.
Allowing infants to wear high heels.

Where have they learned these things?! It sound like they've secretly been watching Rikki Lake, or Jerry Springer. I'm now waiting for the paternity tests to be announced. Ly-eesha should be quaking in her high heels.

No more pulses and cabbage for this family.

2010-10-15T01:35:00.000+01:00

Robbie demonstrated the 'pull my finger' gag, to the girls today. It went down a storm - they think it's hysterical.

Of course, for the record - I thoroughly disapprove.

Rob 1, Girls, 0

2010-10-06T01:17:00.000+01:00

In the car, listening to Rob's recent cd purchase - American Anthems. Again. Even though there's three cd's, the songs have grown OLD. Especially Michael Sembello's Maniac.

Hannah (4 years old): I don't like this song.

Robbie (33 years old): It doesn't like you.

Touche.

Romance?

2010-10-02T14:06:00.001+01:00

The girls were watching Snow White this morning. When she started singing down the wishing well, I got emotional and started crying. Pfft. Clearly the monthlies are on their way. Cos I’m not usually this soft and sentimental.

Anyway. Just as Snow White is warbling in the well, the handsome prince hears her and starts joining in the singing. She runs off, pretending to be coy. And the prince continues to serenade her by singing the rest of the lyrics of her song.

I told the girls that their Daddy sings to their Mummy like that, cos he’s my Prince Charming. They ALL laughed. Reasons they didn’t think I had a convincing argument?

1. Daddy doesn’t have a cape like the Prince.

2. Daddy can’t sing.

3. I don’t have a well.

Don’t worry, Rob. If you’re reading this, you are my Prince Charming. I can tell from the way you ‘sing’ The Smiths/Morrissey songs to me. Nothing says ‘love’, like Girlfriend in a Coma and You’re the One for me, Fatty.

Innnnnnnteresting.

2010-09-25T09:33:00.001+01:00

Wow. I just read this online. It’s sadly all true.

“Facebook can also be a mecca for passive-aggressive behavior. "Suddenly, things you wouldn't say out loud in conversation are OK to say because you're sitting behind a computer screen," says Kimberly Kaye, 26, an arts writer in New York. She was surprised when friends who had politely discussed health-care reform over dinner later grew much more antagonistic when they continued the argument online.

Just ask Heather White. She says her college roommate at the University of Georgia started an argument over text about who should clean their apartment. Ms. White, 22, who was home visiting her parents at the time, asked her friend to call her so they could discuss the issue. Her friend never did.

A few days later, Ms. White, who graduated in May, updated her Facebook status, commenting that her favorite country duo, Brooks & Dunn, just broke up. Almost immediately, her roommate responded, writing publicly on her wall: "Just like us." The two women have barely spoken since then.

Band-Aid Tactics

So what's the solution, short of "unfriending" or "unfollowing" everyone who annoys you? You can use the "hide" button on Facebook to stop getting your friends' status updates—they'll never know—or use TwitterSnooze, a Web site that allows you to temporarily suspend tweets from someone you follow. (Warning: They'll get a notice from Twitter when you begin reading their tweets again.)

But these are really just Band-Aid tactics. To improve our interactions, we need to change our conduct, not just cover it up. First, watch your own behavior, asking yourself before you post anything: "Is this something I'd want someone to tell me?" "Run it by that focus group of one," says Johns Hopkins's Dr. Wallace.

And positively reward others, responding only when they write something interesting, ignoring them when they are boring or obnoxious. (Commenting negatively will only start a very public war.)

If all that fails, you can always start a new group: "Get Facebook to Create an Eye-Roll Button Now!" “

Full article -

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970204660604574370450465849142.html

So, to “improve my interactions” I shall try to “change my conduct” by sadly staying away from Facebook a lot more.

I am a sociable person -I love the interaction that Facebook offers. I’ve made some really good, good friends that mean a lot to me through this medium. But, the moment I start subscribing to something that causes me anxiety and distress is surely a bad thing. I’m 34 years old. Not 14. I don’t buy in to petty squabbles and narcissist rants. And unfortunately, Facebook also offers a soapbox for people that require attention and a medium for them to say whatever they like, with no thought to anybody else’s feelings but their own.

Now. What to do with all this time I’ve spared myself? Maybe clean my kitchen floor?

Meh. Why break the habit of a lifetime?

So – tell me. Have you got any stories to tell that will make me feel better about staying away from my favourite past-time? :)

Yodelling

2010-08-30T19:57:00.001+01:00

I've always been intrigued/fascinated/utterly bemused by the warbling antics of Mariah Carey and the likes. The hand action. The facial contortions. The crazy pointing. The jaw spasms. The inability to choose a note and stick with it.

Not being a singer myself, I've often wondered if these are an integral part of sounding good. Mariah's a great singer - she does the aforementioned 'tricks'. Christina Aguilera is a great singer. She's also known to have these flourishes. (She could do with a good bath. Dirrrrty, as in, pass the soap. Eeeuuww..)

So, to kind of illustrate my point, here's a great song for you all to listen to. And for those au fait with the most recent Body Pump tracks, this is used for the cool down. I really do love this song, even though I didn't know who these people were, til I googled them. Now, all I know is their names :)

Now. If you were a young couple that were so desperately in love, that you had to take time out of your recording studio and photo shoot to meet up in a forest, (that I think looks like where MJ and his beau were walking through. But the again, I suppose all forests look the same, right?) to sing to each other... WHY would you implement the flourishes at that point? Look at the video, around about 2.52.

The guy, Guy (... hehe) looks like the wicked witch of the west, just after she's had the bucket of water thrown over her. A total contortion. In fact, if he were my boyfriend, singing to me like that, I'd have to resist the urge of putting him in the recovery position. Having said that, the broad - Jordin ain't that much better.

Meh. Who am I to comment? I like Michael Bolton. And Chicago. And anyone else of that ilk.

MMmmmmm Peter Cetera in a forest.....

You know it's a bad day when..

2010-08-17T22:15:00.000+01:00

...you've lost the lids for your contact lens case and have to use Connect 4 counters instead. (And when I say Connect 4, I mean ASDA's own version of it.)

It'll fall on deaf ears.

2010-08-01T15:14:00.000+01:00

So, if you were thinking about calling Social Services on my ass cos of this morning's breakfast shenanigans, then think again.

The kids WANTED to eat dry Weetabix (not even the chocolate chip ones).

They call it Wickerbix out of their own choice (no, I've not made them watch the Wicker Man. I'm distressed enough remembering sitting on a wicker chair when I was younger and getting all scratched from it.)

They asked for water. It's not that I didn't offer them diluting juice, cos I did. Honest. They just chose water.

They started coughing and spluttering from trying to chow down on the dry Weetabix and decided they didn't like water after all, so didn't have a drink to wash it all down with. There were tears and shouts of "I told you so's".

But, if after hearing all of the evidence, you still want to call Social Services cos I don't offer my kids a decent, healthy, moist breakfast, then call them. My case number is 24601. In fact, if I get a 5 more calls, I'll get a free t-shirt.

WHY?!

2010-07-16T23:31:00.000+01:00

Why do shopping centres insist on playing their own cover versions of current songs?

Why when I go for a lip and chin wax, do I have to trade a moustache of hair, for a moustache of pimples?

Why do I love bacon flavoured Frazzles so much?

Why can't I give up Diet Pepsi?

Why don't I really want to give up Diet Pepsi?

Why does Diet Pepsi taste so good?

Why does Pepsi Max taste so rank?

Why am I craving a Diet Pepsi right now?

Why have I run out of Diet Pepsi?

Why can't I convince my husband to go get me some Diet Pepsi from the shop?

Why do I need to wear two bras to control The Ladies?

Why do I always look forward to the weekend?

Why do the weekends never live up to the hype?

Why do I fear for the future of Miley Cyrus?

Why do I care about Miley Cyrus?

Why do I stay up late at night when I've been dying to get to my bed all day long?

Why were Kermit and Miss Piggy together? She was horrible.

Why do I worry that I am Miss Piggy?

Why do I have so many questions?

Conversations I’m not prepared for.

2010-06-13T20:51:00.001+01:00

I just went to turn off the girls' light. Eilidh looked at my nightie (yes - it's 7.45pm and I'm in my nightwear... what!?) and said,

"I like your nightie"

"Thanks."

"Do you wear it in bed?"

"Yes, to keep me cosy"

"Well, what does Daddy wear?"

"Dunno - a pair of pyjamas"

"Well, I hope he's not naked, cos you wouldn't want to touch his penis"

"Er... no - I wouldn't want to do that".

Seriously - what the…?

Things that make me cry.

2010-06-04T10:26:00.001+01:00

I have been rather emotional of late. For no reason, other than I’m a girl. Yes, that’s a valid excuse.

Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Really – does this need any explanation? Though Ty’s little beard thing makes me cry. Cry for him. It’s bad.
Pictures of my friend’s newborn little girl. I know how long she’s waited for her. And she’s beautiful.
Early mornings.
Body Attack class. I really don’t know what that one’s about. Probably just tiredness from the aforementioned early mornings… Or crying cos I realise my body is going to have to be attacked with a scalpel to make any real difference.
Odd socks. Unless there are people in this house wearing three socks at a time, I just don’t know what’s going on there. I really hope Robbie’s not wearing three socks. The Red Hot Chilli Peppers are the only people that could get away with it. And even then…
No more baby gate. Really – I was sobbing when I took that away from the top of the stairs. We just didn’t need it. Cos my babies are big. And there’s no more babies. And so there were tears.. :(
Lazytown’s ‘Teamwork’ song. Really!!
Turning 34. I was 34 last week. Wow. Old. Ever since I turned 30, I’ve had a couple of tears on my birthday. I don’t want to be old! :(

Well. I think I’ve listed most things. But, there are things that make me happy.

Chocolate and sweets.

Do you need my address to send me some?

General musings in my scatter brain

2010-05-12T09:57:00.001+01:00

If I had three boys instead of three girls, I could shave off at least 15 minutes from my morning routine. Or maybe just shave off their hair.
I have sore ankles and am wearing ankle supports. (Running with a big booty takes it’s toll.) I’m now wondering if I were to strap them round my feet, if I could make them a smaller size. Like chinese foot binding. I could get in to so many cute styles if I had smaller feet. I’m a size 8 (uk). Have you seen what’s on offer for size 8’s? Aside from the ones with the built up soles? Nasty.
People add me to their facebook pages, even though they don’t know who I am, nor me, them. Strange. I’m a rubbish friend to the people I DO know. So don’t make me try and be friends with someone that I have a tenuous link with. My lousiness can only be stretched so far.
I have too many appliances in my house that have broken within the last couple of weeks. These include, but not limited to (knowing my luck) , my oven, tumble dryer, shower screen and now my washing machine. I think this is where the term ‘The Total Shaft’, comes in. I’d like to find the person that made up the saying about things happening in threes, and slap them. Cos that’s at least 4. I won’t bore you with all the other little things that are wrong.
Am also now considering becoming really friendly with someone that plays the lottery, so that when they win the Euro Millions, they’ll feel inclined to give me a substantial share in their winnings. Let me know if you’d like to be this special friend. I’ll even add you on facebook.
I can’t find my eyebrow tweezers. This means trouble. Cos I’m spiky.
I do LOVE diet Pepsi. I drink it like you see men drink whiskey in films. You know, they take a swig and then curl their top lip above their top teeth and take a sharp intake of breath. This move is also used when trying to tough out pain. Like when I fell in the bath the other day and fell on a Peppa Pig figurine and smashed it in to my knee.
I’m secretly laughing at everyone that has had their travel plans upset because of the volcano in Iceland. (Who knew that Iceland had more to offer than just Lazytown?) I’m only laughing, cos I’m jealous that they had at least the hope of going on holiday.

Umm… yeah. Think that’s it. I won’t bore you with anything else rattling around in there. Just now…

Buns of steel..underneaththejelly.

2010-05-06T09:05:00.001+01:00

Yeah, so I’ve been gymming. And why is my spell check underlining this word? It’s a real word.

My sister had encouraged me to go to a weight resistance class called Body Pump. And in my desire to look like Jillian Michaels (pfft – yeah, right. The impossible dream. She’s got nice hair though too. Meh – i can’t achieve that either..) I decided to go.

Yeah, that’s me.

Actually imagine a few lbs (it’s my blog, I can lie if I want to) bigger. Also, wearing one of Robbie’s old T-shirts, that he got given at work and are emblazoned with DELL and Symantec logos. Also imagine my hair scraped back in one of my daughter’s hairbands and a purple hair elastic. No cute side sweep fringe like the girl in the pic. And my men’s trainers, cos all the cute girl trainers are too narrow for my big old flipper feet.

Well, at least I was there, right? And I did the class. And I was pretty good at it.

And then, the next day came.

And I was dying a death. I seriously couldn’t move. I couldn’t get up and down the stairs. I had to crawl downstairs. Backwards. I couldn’t lift my arms to feed my beach ball face. (Interesting new diet idea..) I couldn’t sit down and get up from the loo without rapid breathing and straining, like I was in the latter stages in labour.

And this lasted for about 3 days.

I’m actually typing this with a special head tapper that I’ve fashioned out of a wire coat hanger, wrapped around my head, with a cotton bud at the end, to press the keys.

Ok, that last statement was a lie. But everything else is correct. And I want to know how all the folk on The Biggest Loser manage to be shouted in the face by Jillian Michaels, pushed to the limit, day after day and are still able to get up and down stairs properly…

Until that time, I’m thinking about having this installed… Sure my muscles are fine now, but stairs are just too taxing anyway..

Yeah – so I’ve been AWOL. Again.

2010-04-29T23:53:00.001+01:00

But I reserve the right to do so. I’ll be honest.

Sometimes I just can’t be bothered.

Sometimes I like to play with my friends on Facebook. There’s a group of us that email back and forth and sometimes, they are just too funny, endearing, entertaining, loving and rude to ignore.

Sometimes I don’t post cos I feel like I’m being rebellious. (Don’t try and get inside my head… I can’t figure me out..)

But this time, I was busy! I’d been looking at Sarah’s blog and LOVING all her cute ideas and crafty (actual crafty, not sneaky) ways. She inspired me to get pictures on walls, look at things in second hand stores, and generally just to make things prettier.

*Disclaimer* I am in NO way suggesting that my stuff’s as good as Sarah’s… Cos really, it ain’t. I’m not even going to be posting pics.. I just don’t want you all to come to visit, expecting a home full of beautiful crafty things, with beautiful details and then being disappointed when you find… nuffin’. Look – I’ve at least got a picture on my wee family on the wall. What more do you want?

Anyway. Other than painting light shades, drilling holes for display shelves, hammering nails for pictures, my life’s been pretty uneventful. Nothing blog worthy at all. I’ll bullet point a couple of things that I reckon are at least worth a sort of mention..

*My two younger girls are both in nursery in the afternoon now. One day, I had a tummy bug (see? You really don’t want a blog post on me camping out on the loo) and all I needed was my bed. i got to go for a half hour nap. In my bed. During the day. It was magic. Truly. I’d take another week of the trots to make me feel validated in taking another midday nap..

*I’m still going to the gym. But what really startles me, is how many women get dressed wearing NO PANTS (underwear pants..). Am I the only one?! Isn’t that uncomfortable!? I asked Robbie about this one night, after coming home from the Changing Room that Underwear Forgot. He told me that he never used to wear underwear when he was younger. He’d just sling on his jeans and go. My overactive imagination left me thinking about the pencil case I had in primary4. It was a furry one, and the zip kept getting stuck in all the fur….

*I’m going for a lip and chin wax on Saturday morning. (See the train of thought there? And the very real lack of exciting things to tell you about?)

*I want to start running again. I was running around 10 miles this time last year. Unfortunately, cakes found me. It’s the most evil pursuit ever. But I feel the need to be able to conquer it. Meh… cakes are so good though…

*I turn 34 at the end of May. I feel quite, quite sick. Turning 30 was hellish. Now, I’m slapping on the anti-aging creams and lotions, trying to reverse the signs of aging, but disappointed that they can’t actually stop the clock on my age. 34. Sick and wrong. Maybe I’ll wear a black armband that day, as a sign of my mourning for youth gone and beauty going…

So, there. That’s it. Now, I must see to the crying baby (she’s 2, But as the youngest, she will always be the baby.)

And how are all of you?

Good and bad Karma.

2010-03-31T20:02:00.001+01:00

So now that I have a couple of hours ‘to myself’ each afternoon (which actually only an hour and a half, after you count travel time to and from school) I thought I’d do all the cleaning things that you can’t really do with the kids about.

So I cleaned out my oven. Who knows that last time that baby got a good cleaning. Probably the last time my MIL was up. She seems to be able to find stuff to clean that I have overlooked.. I think it’s a talent. Or maybe before that. Cos I found a couple of charred crinkle cut chips in the back. And I honestly can’t remember the last time I bought those.

Just as I was getting in to it, scrubbing away all the residue built up from so many weeks/months/years, I broke the glass panel on the inside of the oven door.

Which leads me to another point. I read somewhere that when something bad happens, it’s a good stress reliever to swear. Don’t go asking me to support that theory with references. I can’t remember. All I know is that it was tried and tested. And while I’m not sure if I was feeling less stress after my tirade of potty mouthed words, the words used certainly captured the feelings and sentiments of the moment.

Lesson learned? That oven could’ve gone a few more weeks/months/years without a good clean. Cleaning can be destructive. Therefore, evil.

On another note, it was the eldest’s Easter service at school today.

I didn’t go.

Don’t start judging. At least til I give reasons that you may judge more harshly.

I didn’t want to go. Plain and simple. It was in the afternoon. I’d just got the younger two off to nursery. The minister bloke that goes to the service is boring. And he dyes his hair black. Which disturbs me. Cos maybe he’s an Elvis impersonator in his spare time. And it’s always really busy. And hot. And the parents are noisy. Seriously.

But – I did use my time wisely. I tried fixing our car’s windscreen wipers. And I bought bread. Umm….. and I cleaned out the washing machine…. And I phoned a garage.

And am I glad that I didn’t go. Karma was good to me. As pay back from the oven incident, I managed to avoid the STENCH of bums and pits at the Easter Service. I kid you not. When I went to the school to collect Eilidh, I passed through the hall where the service had been held. And it was REEKING. I couldn’t have imagined having to sit through that for an hour while having to inhale the bodily odours from a couple of manky, smelly parents.

And also, cos the oven’s not working I got to give the kids a McDonalds meal without feeling too guilty about contributing to their childhood obesity.

YYYEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

2010-03-25T14:16:00.001Z

The Egg is now at nursery. I now have 2 hours every afternoon to myself.

Though, in my first half hour of freedom, I have found myself ‘celebrating’ by watching an episode of Dynasty. Just cos it’s not Waybuloo or In the Night Garden. But then I got sidetracked playing on Facebook and when I looked up at the tv again, there was some shot with an old guy, with what seemed like a really bad hair piece, kissing this haggard looking woman. Open mouthed, dirty kiss. I thought he had lock jaw. I actually felt sick. Turned out it wasn’t Dynasty anymore, but some show called Roses are for the Rich.

Maybe I’m not so good on my own.

Meh…. who am I kidding!??!?! Yeehhaaaa, baby! All the things I can do!!

Well – right now I’ll put away laundry and I may even put my ipod on.

Yeah. I know how to live.

Hello, Windows Live Writer.

2010-03-15T13:42:00.001Z

You appeal to my lazy side.

Ok, to suggest I have more than one side to me is silly. I’m lazy. From all sides..

I’m so lazy that when I was at the gym the other night, I’d convinced myself that 15 mins on the cross trainer, then a 5 minute run would more than suffice. After all, I had to hurry home. We were phoning in chinese food.

When I got on the treadmill, and roughly 2 minutes in (the time where I think I’m going to cough up my right lung) i was about to slow it down to an easy amble, when my trainer walked by.

And this weird need to please rose within me. It’s a weird thing I have, this need to please. Anyhoo – it took hold and made me run a little longer. Just until she was finished talking to the person next to my treadmill.

Ok – so she talked for 20 minutes. And I was dying a death. But did I show her. I showed her that I was sticking to my programme. She’ll be so pleased with me when it’s time to go back for my ‘check –in’.

So I thought I’d go for a wee swim after. A couple of lengths and I was ready for a warm up in the jacuzzi. Of course, you know she came to check the pool and got talking to someone in there too.

Yes – I had to keep swimming til she was finished. Yes, I was cursing my irrational behaviour. And after 45 minutes, I was beginning to judge her for talking too much.

Those prawn crackers tasted so good by the time I got home…

I know I'm lucky/fortunate..selfish?

2010-03-09T14:18:00.000Z

I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but my beautiful girl, (the first born in the wilderness) has Asperger's. Her assessment came just before she started school, but since then she has learned ways of dealing with her 'issues'. To today, where you would be hard pushed to associate the label of Asperger's with Eildh.

She is a beautiful, talented, sensitive and loving child. I know that we're lucky that she's part of our family.

When I was dropping Hannah off at nursery today, which is next to Eilidh school, there was a boy, about 10 years old, being held by the head teacher, as he was sobbing and shouting. I think he was trying to run away. The head teacher (who obviously knows Eilidh and has had meetings with me about her and her 'condition') looked at me and said

"You could have it a lot worse."

And that upset me. Because, she's right. Eilidh could be a lot less functioning. She could have extreme signs of this condition. She could struggle at school, and I think I would struggle to help her.

And then I felt guilty. Guilty that I felt relieved, that I wasn't the mother having to come to the school to help my crying child.

And then I feel guilty at feeling grateful for my beautiful girls. The girls that I know I moan about, who are naughty and headstrong, but at the same time, loving and kind and healthy. I continually forget about perspective. And how lucky I am.

I'm famous.

2010-03-02T17:12:00.005Z

Really - I am!

Check here!! Thank you Tina!!!

Also in today's news. I'm thinking of buying myself a defibrillator. Cos at this rate, these kids are going to give me a heart attack, and it's better to be proactive, than reactive, right?

And I'm not talking about the time I took Eggy to ASDA to get some shopping, and she was screaming the place down, to the point were folk were offering sweets to her, and giving me pitiful looks.

Nor am I talking about the time that the kids were on a go slow. They couldn't be bothered walking the length of themselves. In the snow. Just after a murder had taken place at the aforementioned ASDA, and there was a news team trying to interview me to find out what I thought of the mindless shooting in the car park.. When, rather selfishly, all I could think about, was hijacking their news van and driving myself home.

Nor am I referring to the time we went to Pizza Hut for lunch, and instead of getting the Caesar Salad, I ended up with a near stomach ulcer and the longing for the ability to be invisible. (Actually, if I was wishing for things, that would probably end up on the bottom of the list, after perfectly behaved kids and the ability to embarrass Jillian Michaels with my super strength and svelteness.) All because of one screaming child in a high chair, and another customer tutting and saying "for goodness sake", at my apparent lack of parenting skills and inability to calm the untamable Esther.

Yeah - today I'm referring to my two youngest 'darlings' who, while we were in a sports shop, decided to wait til my back was turned, and both ran away. Out of the shop. Down the road.

Cut to me running after them (i need to wear a sports bra all the time, if I'm going to be really proactive....) and shrieking like a mad woman. I could hear myself and the piercing noise I was making. But I'd had that 5 seconds of fear, not knowing where they were , then finding them, ( albeit running away) and feeling relieved, but unbelievably mad that they put me through that most awful 5 seconds of fear. And then, me grabbing them both by their collars, and chastising and cancelling trips to the pet shop and withdrawing offers of buying sweets, in that low voice, as you're nose to nose. All the while, being annoyed that I'm nowhere near any kind of naughty step, where I can leave them to think about their actions.

Pfft. Until they're all in their 20's, and causing me different kinds of problems, I'm off to see if I can buy a defibrillator on Amazon. I'll charge it up, using the static created by Esther's hair.

Unlike a good wine, THIS doesn't age well.

2010-02-09T23:36:00.000Z

I've been having one of my 'panic-attacks-over-my-age' moments. And know that when I say I'm having a panic attack, I'm not really. I like to over dramatise. But also, know this – that it is a real concern for me. Mostly the times when I look in the mirror, and catch a sight of laughter lines round my eyes that won't disappear, when I'm no longer laughing. And then new lines appear when I'm crying, after looking at the ever present laughter lines. See? I'm over dramatising again. But, believe you me, I was crying on the inside. These wrinkles (there – I said it) are here to stay. And no amount of beauty product is going to get rid of them. And yes, I've tried. Believe me. I've tried.

So, this panic attack moment has been with me since the start of the week. This time, it was spurred on by my grey hairs making themselves known. I need to get my hair dyed again. Sheesh. I need a lot of upkeep in my advancing years.

But it certainly wasn't helped when Eilidh came home from school and was asking me questions for her school project – When Mum and Dad were Young. Well. The title itself is a real kick in the shins. But her line of questioning was a real stab to the heart.

“Did you have electricity when you were a girl?”

“Did you have a television when you were young?”

“Did you go to school when you were my age?”

Well. Ain't that just dandy. I tried not to take out my sheer disbelief and indignation on her. And I tried to calmly give my answers to her questions. And no, I didn't use any swear words. Not out loud, anyway. But, inside my wrinkled head, they were swirling about.

One thing they didn't have when I was young, was a 24 hour supermarket. Cos that night, a hair dye was bought. Along with a new facial wash promising me youth untold, and a chocolate bar. No – chocolate isn't an age-reversing product. It just makes the journey in to old age that much more bearable.

Yeah. You look at those wrinkles.

A heid like a burst couch.

2010-02-02T11:24:00.000Z

Yes - this is what one woman said about my daughter's hair. And you know what? I can't even deny it.

I posted a pic of Esther's huge hair a wee while ago, here. Since then, her hair has gathered more power, grown bigger, and looks set on world domination. In my mind, it's kinda like the computer thing from Superman III, that feeds off of electricity, and becomes stronger and stronger, and a force unto itself.

Here it is, as of this morning.

And before you start calling Social Services, don't worry. I do make an attempt to stick a clasp in it. But to be honest, that's an animal that is born to be wild, and will never be tamed...

Ah, the mighty Weight Watchers leader.

2010-01-24T21:20:00.001Z

So - it's been a while since I was at Fat Class. Enough time for most of my weight to go back on. Dammit. Oh well, at least I can be big enough (hello - the problem here, I think?!) to stand up and admit I need to go back to Fat Class and get back on the straight and narrow. I also swallowed my pride and joined a gym again. Yes, with emphasis on the again. I don't think there'll ever be a time when I'll look like Heidi Klum, and not like Roseanne Barr. Anyhoo.

So, after being weighed and finding that I'd only lost 2.5 lbs ( I fully expect to lose 14 lbs every week...at least, I always hope), I took a seat, and waited to be inspired by our leader in all things non-cake. Ready to listen to her pearls of wisdom, recipe ideas and tips on how to perform a home jaw wiring procedure.

She started talking about exercise. I was feeling quietly smug with msyelf. I'd been to the gym 5 times that week. Nearly killing myself every time. (Damn that treadmill. It's the work of the devil.) I waited to hear how she told everyone how important it is to exercise, and how they should look to me as their shining example, and that they should come to me for tips and hints.

Ok - maybe too far with that, but suffice to say, I was feeling ready to hear things I already knew.

So, I was wrong.

According to the mighty Weight Watchers leader, I shouldn't be going to the gym. As a "heavy" person, I "don't want to go to the gym and kill yourself in the classes". As a "fat" person, I "don't want to be on the treadmill, working up a sweat". And swimming? You don't want to "grease yourself in to a swimsuit and go swimming. You'd create a tsunami!"

(And to reiterate. The use of " " IS correct. She DID say these things. No paraphrasing.)

What?!

Here's her good ideas on exercise.

Sitting on your sofa, pedalling one of those pedal things, for no more than 10 minutes at a time. My gran's got one. She's 86.

Go up the stairs instead of the escalator. I've only got stairs in my house. ;)

Carry your shopping to the car, instead of taking the trolley to the car.

Put the radio on, and dance to some music.

And there you have it. I've clearly got it wrong. Obviously, I'm never going to lose the 14 lbs a week if I keep going to the gym. I need to abandon that silly notion, and mug my gran for her pedal machine. (What ARE those things called?!)

By the way - you all owe me £4.95. Cos I've basically just given you a free Weight Watchers class.

Cash only.

Get outta my dreams...

2010-01-08T14:19:00.000Z

So, Billy Ocean may have had pleasant dreams about hot looking chicas, and getting them in to his car. On a side note, if Billy were to pick me up in his car, all I'd want, is to be taken to a McDonald's drive-thru. I think, medically, physiologically, my body NEEDS Big Macs and chocolate milkshakes. It's science. I can't argue with fact. And on another side note, who else feels like a complete TOOL, asking for their products, and having to prefix everything with Mc. I once asked for a kids meal with chicken pieces. The girl (with 5 stars on her badge - she must have been the supervisor, or summit..) stared at me blankly, just wondering what the hell I was talking about. Maybe she thought I was a spy from Burger King. Maybe she was just so pro-the-use-of-Mc, that she refused to take any order unless i used the 'correct' terminology for it. Pfft.

Anyway. back to dreams, Billy Ocean etc. Today, it was like someone looked in to my brain, saw my worst nightmare, and let me live it out in real life. Where there's no respite. Where there's no hope of waking up, and feeling the sweet sense of relief pouring over me.

Today, we had to take Eggy and Hannah to the doctor's to get their swine flu jabs. No big deal. I can get my head round that. But to take them to the surgery and find it FULL of other kids... some crying, some shouting, some pulling hair, some just sitting, staring in to space, clearly as horrified as I was.

I'm not a fan of kids.

What!? Don't lie. Neither are you.. really. I mean - other people's kids. Come on - admit it. See? Told you. I'm just honest about it.. ;)

There is my nightmare. A room full of kids. And their parents. And the unsaid parenting contest that goes on. There's the mother who INSISTS on reading to her child, and saying in a too loud voice "come on darling, i know you love the story of Macbeth, remember you read it to me that time we were at home eating crudities and hummus, just before the spanish teacher arrived to teach you your spanish verbs?"

The kid is 5.

Or, the speaking in the third person. "Darling, you're hurting mummy's arm leaning on it like that. How would you like it if mummy were to lean on your arm? Yes, that's what mummy was saying.. don't do it, darling."

The kid is 15.

And then just all the kids. So many kids. TOO many kids.

I seem to be the Pied Piper of kids. They seem to flock to me. Even doing the school run, all of Eilidh's school mates seem to come to me to say hello, and to tell me their tales of Golden Time, and their projects, and who was naughty in class. I must just have a face on me, that encourages childlike banter. In my mind, i'm like Rocky, where he's running, and all the kids are running alongside him. He seems not to mind. But I would have stopped running, turned around, and told them to beat it. And probably not be able to get started running again, thus then fuelling my disdain for the pesky kids.

In fact, any place where there are kids, seems to grind my gears. When I see adverts on the telly, i think - great- some chillaxing beside the pool. And then they advertise activities for the kids. Then the red flag in my brain goes up and yells ALERT, ALERT! Children + holiday = NO HOLIDAY!

I don't think I'll ever get over my grouchiness towards large gatherings of kids. I wonder if there's a name for it. A technical term. Then at least, i could be excused for feeling this way..

"Claire? No - she won't want to come to the kids' party. She's got Childrephobia."

"Oh, really? Such a shame. She seems fabulous"

"Yes - she really is fantastic. It's amazing she does so much, despite this chronic condition"

I'm going to CREATE this condition. Maybe I'll even insert an entry to Wikipedia, cos you know, once it's in there, it's true.

Pipes of Peace? Not in this hoose.

2009-12-28T08:59:00.004Z

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!

Who the Fawkes that?!

2009-11-05T22:33:00.015Z

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....

I bet Heidi Klum has the same problem...

2009-10-20T09:34:00.000+01:00

"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."

What? So I'm not Nigella?!

2009-08-31T22:32:00.002+01:00

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.

Visiting Hours.

2009-08-12T11:46:00.003+01:00

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.

Soul Glo

2009-05-28T13:20:00.002+01:00

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.

Seriously, people. Sort it out.

2009-05-07T16:08:00.004+01:00

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...

More staying power than Cher, it would seem.

2009-04-29T12:16:00.004+01:00

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?

Emmm...

2009-04-23T21:12:00.000+01:00

I miss my blog.

There. I said it.

So long, farewell.

2009-04-03T12:39:00.002+01:00

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

My baby. My chubby little baby.

2009-03-23T21:34:00.004Z

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.. ;)

Cheesy or cute?

2009-03-05T22:00:00.006Z

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.

Why I've been AWOL.

2009-03-01T22:03:00.005Z

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.

Great Expectations

2009-02-10T12:59:00.002Z

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...

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

2009-01-31T22:33:00.003Z

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!

sticky situation #548

2009-01-28T13:39:00.002Z

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.

Sunshine from Tigger... and me being smelly

2009-01-23T22:30:00.005Z

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....

I knew how to attract the boys;)

2009-01-18T22:17:00.005Z

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.

Slice me open and see the venom

2009-01-14T11:51:00.004Z

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...

Well, it was bound to happen.

2009-01-08T13:23:00.003Z

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.

Slave to the blog

2009-01-05T15:31:00.003Z

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...

I have a confession...

2008-12-14T20:39:00.002Z

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.

Atomic.... indeed.

2008-12-10T22:07:00.003Z

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....

A complaint.

2008-11-28T10:16:00.003Z

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.

I found hidden treasure today.

2008-11-26T19:49:00.004Z

...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...

I'm looking for the light...

2008-11-18T22:36:00.002Z

...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?!

Richard Simmons? My new guru.

2008-11-13T20:23:00.005Z

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.

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

2008-11-06T23:01:00.003Z

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.

ASDA - Annoyance, Screaming kids, Desperate parenting, Aaaaggh

2008-11-04T19:58:00.004Z

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 ;)

A week of livin' la vida loca.

2008-11-03T21:20:00.003Z

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...

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

2008-10-28T20:52:00.005Z

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.

Yes, more about me.

2008-10-23T20:13:00.004+01:00

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!

Barry! I can't quite breathe!

2008-10-19T22:34:00.005+01:00

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.

Sneaky Reader

2008-10-17T21:55:00.002+01:00

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 ;)

The ladies have been brought to justice

2008-10-14T22:28:00.005+01:00

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...

Anniversary? Must we celebrate it? :(

2008-10-09T21:34:00.008+01:00

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.

To love and to cherish...

2008-10-06T22:19:00.005+01:00

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.

For my friend Kristy

2008-10-05T09:50:00.004+01:00

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.

Golly I'm Jolly with my Trolley Dolly.

2008-10-03T19:54:00.004+01:00

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.

2008-10-01T20:00:00.011+01:00

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

2008-09-27T16:39:00.004+01:00

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...

The Clan of Campbell

2008-09-23T22:50:00.005+01:00

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 :)

University (mentally) challenge(d)

2008-09-22T19:53:00.005+01:00

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.

Excuse me while I trip over my spaniel ears.

2008-09-17T20:44:00.008+01:00

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..

Toupee Shakur

2008-09-13T20:42:00.003+01:00

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.

Have I missed the latest trend?

2008-09-11T10:01:00.011+01:00

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... :(

My fan base..

2008-09-09T21:36:00.007+01:00

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.

Excuse me while I hack up a lung..

2008-09-07T20:56:00.006+01:00

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

Social graces?

2008-09-05T21:16:00.002+01:00

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 :)

I'll order three sets of dentures please..

2008-09-04T20:50:00.007+01:00

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! :(

Breast pads..LITERALLY all over the shop.

2008-09-01T22:02:00.003+01:00

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.

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

2008-08-31T20:57:00.006+01:00

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...

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

2008-08-27T22:57:00.004+01:00

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.

To Pong Poo, thanks for everything Comfort and Lenor

2008-08-26T22:58:00.004+01:00

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.

Hormone check please.

2008-08-24T21:00:00.012+01:00

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.

Hooray.... boke.

2008-08-22T22:08:00.003+01:00

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.

The road kill on my head

2008-08-21T11:36:00.005+01:00

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.

People should know when they're rubbish.

2008-08-17T22:23:00.003+01:00

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.

Toys R us? No thanks.

2008-08-16T22:16:00.003+01:00

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....!

The chasm of no return

2008-08-13T21:49:00.003+01:00

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.

What? I'm old?!

2008-08-12T21:42:00.002+01:00

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 :)

I've found the answer!

2008-08-08T21:36:00.000+01:00

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..

The unblinking eye of judgement

2008-08-07T20:05:00.000+01:00

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'.

The Bee Gees.. Magic or what?!

2008-08-06T20:55:00.000+01:00

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

2008-08-06T20:33:00.000+01:00

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... :)