Over the summer months I have found eating out a chore. I never thought I would say this as I love my food, but it really has been tough. The main reason for this is people on diets.
What used to be an enjoyable experience has turned into a bit of a nightmare. Enjoyable, sociable evenings that should be spent talking about men, shoes, work and whether it’s wrong to fancy any of McFly (for the record I have a soft spot for Dougie) are spent weighing up the pros and cons of drinking vodka instead of wine with dinner and whether to have dessert.
Just reading this explains exactly why I am never going to be a size six and do you know what I don’t care. If I am out for dinner then dinner is what I want. I don’t want to pay somebody £15 for some lettuce leaves that I could throw together at home for a fraction of the price. The whole joy of eating out apart from the company is having something you might not normally have and being indulgent, oh and the fact that you don’t have to wash up.
The joy is taken from this when whilst in the restaurant the people you are dining with stop conversation to asses the menu with their weight watchers points’ tracker in hand or to count slimming world sins, where’s the fun in that?
Now I am not anti-dieting, most of us could do with losing a couple of pounds and normally I eat very balanced diets and am an avid calorie counter. I say balanced diet the other day myself and my colleague ate about four cakes each (to be fair they were only small), I balanced this out by only having a slice of toast and a glass of wine for dinner, see balanced.
To compensate for some of my female friends craziness (as admittedly some of them are still firmly with me on this) I have found the only way round it is to eat out more with my male friends. Men eat properly, they eat what they want and don’t look horrified when I order a massive pizza and a pint (erm another reason I will never be a size six).
I am hoping that once winter arrives this fad will die down and people will return to their usual decadent selves, otherwise it will be a return of the summer of 2003 or was it 2004? When I stopped going for dinner with any of my friends doing the Atkins Diet. The reason I stopped was because it was all they talked about and also nothing can compare with the torture of trying to negotiate an Italian restaurant with somebody who has decided that carbohydrates (an essential food group I might add) are akin to the devil.
So, as much as much as summer is my favourite season of the year when it comes to dining out I say roll on winter. Only the die hard dieters seem to be fanatical in winter. Come October I will hopefully have my none point counting, pizza eating, lager drinking friends back.
Thursday, 19 August 2010
Monday, 9 August 2010
Guilty Pleasures
Guilty pleasures. We all have them. Whether it’s something we do for fun, comfort or because we’re a bit sad, we all have things that make us feel a little happy inside, a bit naughty or just habits we can’t break and nor do we want to. With this in mind and in a bid to make everybody feel a bit better about their guilty pleasures I have decided to reveal my top 10 personal guilty pleasures (in no particular order).
Peanut butter and jam sandwiches
I think this goes back to spending time in America when I was a kid, and been introduced to peanut butter and jelly (their word) sandwiches. I don’t eat them often but when I do it’s like having a little bit of heaven in my mouth. It’s the sweetness and the saltiness combined, there is nothing like it when you fancy a sweet treat. I urge everybody to have a go
Getting into bed really early
Sometimes there is nothing better than getting into bed really, really early. I mean literally getting in from work and getting into bed with a dvd and just staying there until the next morning. Bed at 8pm isn’t very rock n roll but sometimes it’s what’s needed.
Having a fag when I have a drink
This one is nothing to be proud of, but it is probably my most guilty pleasure. Many years ago I gave up smoking, but even now sometimes when I have a drink I enjoy smoking. There I said it, I sometimes enjoy smoking. It’s not every time I have a drink (thank God as drinking sometimes features highly in my week), but when I am with other smokers I love it. I am not sure why, I know it is bad for my health, I know it smells and I know I am not an addict so the only thing that I can put my enjoyment down to is that it’s wrong and sometimes it just feels really good to be bad.
Fish fingers for dinner
When I have had a bad day, salad just won’t cut it, the only meal that will do is fish fingers. I bloody love fish fingers. One hundred per cent comfort food. Argument with a bloke? Fish fingers. Got a cold? Fish fingers. Bad day at work? Fish fingers. I swear they make me feel better every time.
Dancing round the living room in my underwear
Not sure why I am confessing to this one, but sometimes I enjoy nothing better than turning the music up and dancing round my flat in my underwear. Maybe it’s a freedom thing, I’m not sure all I do know is nothing beats dancing in your pants like a loon. Which leads me on nicely to number 6.
Baccara-I Can boogie
I love, love, love this song. I know it’s cheesy, I know I shouldn’t but when she sings “yes sir I can boogie, but I need a certain song….” I’m away, dancing my little heart out. Again I am not sure where this pleasure came from as I wasn’t even born in 1977 when this beauty was released, but it is one of many of my guilty pleasure songs and if you are anywhere in the vicinity when this comes on beware the dance floor won’t know what’s hit it.
Dragons Den repeats (repeatedly)
I am a little obsessed with Dragon’s Den. I’m not sure whether it’s Duncan’s smug face, Deborah’s withering looks or the way Peter can destroy somebody’s confidence in one sentence, but I can’t stop watching it. My addiction is so bad that I even watch repeats of it. I have seen the one with Levi Roots about five times (I wish I was exaggerating but I’m not). Maybe this pleasure comes from the fact that deep down one day I would like to appear in front of the Dragon’s and in my mind Theo has already made me an offer.
Wearing my stepdads jumper when I am sad
My stepdad died 10 years ago and I still have one of his jumpers. Whenever I feel down I put the jumper on. For some reason it always makes me feel better. I don’t know whether it’s just because it’s his or whether in my mind it’s like having a hug off him. It may be a bit sad or some might think it’s weird but combine the jumper with some fish fingers and you’ve found the ultimate way to cheer me up.
White bread
To some people this is probably nothing, but I am a convert to wholemeal bread. Wholemeal and granary all the way, but when I want comfort food it’s got to be white bread, smothered in butter. I can eat it with chips, with crisps, with jam, or just on it’s own. The only problem with white bread is, if it’s in the house I can probably demolish the whole loaf in two days.
Sniffing pillows
Now I don’t mean I just generally sniff pillows or that you need to start hiding your bed linen when I come round your house, but I am guilty of pillow sniffing. It only happens on that rare occasion that I have a boyfriend. If my bloke has stayed the night I love nothing better than the next night getting into bed and been able to smell him on the pillow, I think it’s the smell of aftershave or the memories (let’s not go there), but whatever it is I am out and proud as a pillow sniffer.
So there you go I have outted myself as a bit of a freak, the only thing that makes me feel better is the fact that although I know some of you are sitting there going “what she sniffs pillows?” or “Oh dear smoking is bad” I also know that everyone of you that is doing that probably has a list of guilty pleasures of your own, but are you brave enough to confess to them.
Peanut butter and jam sandwiches
I think this goes back to spending time in America when I was a kid, and been introduced to peanut butter and jelly (their word) sandwiches. I don’t eat them often but when I do it’s like having a little bit of heaven in my mouth. It’s the sweetness and the saltiness combined, there is nothing like it when you fancy a sweet treat. I urge everybody to have a go
Getting into bed really early
Sometimes there is nothing better than getting into bed really, really early. I mean literally getting in from work and getting into bed with a dvd and just staying there until the next morning. Bed at 8pm isn’t very rock n roll but sometimes it’s what’s needed.
Having a fag when I have a drink
This one is nothing to be proud of, but it is probably my most guilty pleasure. Many years ago I gave up smoking, but even now sometimes when I have a drink I enjoy smoking. There I said it, I sometimes enjoy smoking. It’s not every time I have a drink (thank God as drinking sometimes features highly in my week), but when I am with other smokers I love it. I am not sure why, I know it is bad for my health, I know it smells and I know I am not an addict so the only thing that I can put my enjoyment down to is that it’s wrong and sometimes it just feels really good to be bad.
Fish fingers for dinner
When I have had a bad day, salad just won’t cut it, the only meal that will do is fish fingers. I bloody love fish fingers. One hundred per cent comfort food. Argument with a bloke? Fish fingers. Got a cold? Fish fingers. Bad day at work? Fish fingers. I swear they make me feel better every time.
Dancing round the living room in my underwear
Not sure why I am confessing to this one, but sometimes I enjoy nothing better than turning the music up and dancing round my flat in my underwear. Maybe it’s a freedom thing, I’m not sure all I do know is nothing beats dancing in your pants like a loon. Which leads me on nicely to number 6.
Baccara-I Can boogie
I love, love, love this song. I know it’s cheesy, I know I shouldn’t but when she sings “yes sir I can boogie, but I need a certain song….” I’m away, dancing my little heart out. Again I am not sure where this pleasure came from as I wasn’t even born in 1977 when this beauty was released, but it is one of many of my guilty pleasure songs and if you are anywhere in the vicinity when this comes on beware the dance floor won’t know what’s hit it.
Dragons Den repeats (repeatedly)
I am a little obsessed with Dragon’s Den. I’m not sure whether it’s Duncan’s smug face, Deborah’s withering looks or the way Peter can destroy somebody’s confidence in one sentence, but I can’t stop watching it. My addiction is so bad that I even watch repeats of it. I have seen the one with Levi Roots about five times (I wish I was exaggerating but I’m not). Maybe this pleasure comes from the fact that deep down one day I would like to appear in front of the Dragon’s and in my mind Theo has already made me an offer.
Wearing my stepdads jumper when I am sad
My stepdad died 10 years ago and I still have one of his jumpers. Whenever I feel down I put the jumper on. For some reason it always makes me feel better. I don’t know whether it’s just because it’s his or whether in my mind it’s like having a hug off him. It may be a bit sad or some might think it’s weird but combine the jumper with some fish fingers and you’ve found the ultimate way to cheer me up.
White bread
To some people this is probably nothing, but I am a convert to wholemeal bread. Wholemeal and granary all the way, but when I want comfort food it’s got to be white bread, smothered in butter. I can eat it with chips, with crisps, with jam, or just on it’s own. The only problem with white bread is, if it’s in the house I can probably demolish the whole loaf in two days.
Sniffing pillows
Now I don’t mean I just generally sniff pillows or that you need to start hiding your bed linen when I come round your house, but I am guilty of pillow sniffing. It only happens on that rare occasion that I have a boyfriend. If my bloke has stayed the night I love nothing better than the next night getting into bed and been able to smell him on the pillow, I think it’s the smell of aftershave or the memories (let’s not go there), but whatever it is I am out and proud as a pillow sniffer.
So there you go I have outted myself as a bit of a freak, the only thing that makes me feel better is the fact that although I know some of you are sitting there going “what she sniffs pillows?” or “Oh dear smoking is bad” I also know that everyone of you that is doing that probably has a list of guilty pleasures of your own, but are you brave enough to confess to them.
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
It's a boycott
I am boycotting foreign men. Don’t get me wrong this is definitely not a race thing as I love a lithe olive skinned hottie as much as the next woman. What I can’t cope with is the passion and I am not referring to in the bedroom so get your minds out of the gutter.
It’s the constant ups and downs and the intensity I can’t cope with. It reminds me of when Carrie in Sex and the City is dating the Russian, he writes her a song and then wants to dance in the street her response is something of the lines of “Can you calm it down a bit, I’m American?” Well I am not American but I understand her sentiment.
My friend and I were talking about this only the other week. I was saying how I love the idea of grand gestures, unannounced arrivals in the middle of the night (because they miss me, not because they’re drunk), surprise flowers, fiery arguments followed by even more fiery making up, declarations of undying love and singing under my window (alright that’s going a bit far). My friend then pointed out to me that in fact when any of these things have happened I hadn’t liked it at all.
I think I only like the idea of these things. In my head I am the heroine waiting to be swept off her feet by some dark, brooding, tanned Johnny Depp lookalike, but, with an Italian/Spanish/French (delete as applicable), who within hours of meeting me declares undying love, which I at first ignore but he eventually wins me over with his persistence. In reality I am not overly romantic and if I’ve said no, I generally mean no so there isn’t any amount of perusal would change my mind.
So, to enlighten you as to why I am an expert on such matters here are just some of my encounters with the passionate Portuguese, Italian stallions and beguiling Bulgarians to name a few.
A few years ago whilst on holiday in Spain I met a Portuguese man called Ramiro. He was a handsome man, but after only one kiss he was texting every day and even told me he loved me. The texting went on for about six months. On my return to Spain I had to hide from him for fear he might produce an engagement ring. I may be a good kisser, but not even I believe that I am so good that this behaviour was warranted. I just put it down to mental instability, but now I’m not sure.
There was the French man who after only meeting and chatting once, seemed to appear everywhere I went telling me how much he liked me and wanting me to visit him in Bordeaux.
More recently there has been the incident of the crazy Italian (anybody who knows me well, will know about this one). The long and short of it was we met, went on two dates and he vanished for three months. Only to reappear by putting an apologetic note through my door followed by text messages for the next month to try and persuade me to meet him, accompanied by stroppiness, begging and even a mention of a short break away, eventually he went away.
On a recent trip to Bulgaria I spoke to a man about going into his bar. The following night when I arrive the response was immense “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here, oh my God this is great.” Again I am not sure my entrance warranted this response. To be fair though the way he acted was amusing and I am sure I could live with it if all men decided to act like that when I entered a room.
To be honest I find all this behaviour quite unnerving and although amusing I think that on the whole although at the time of the declaration of love they may genuinely think they mean it, I also suspect they may feel like that about a whole array of other women.
This is why from now on I am saying that British is best. There may be no scaling balconies, serenading (well other than drunk karaoke), turning up unannounced with flowers, chocolates, notes through the door or offers of marriage after a week of knowing each other, but at least you know when the L word is said it is genuine. After all these Latino lovelies need to “calm it down a bit. I’m British”.
It’s the constant ups and downs and the intensity I can’t cope with. It reminds me of when Carrie in Sex and the City is dating the Russian, he writes her a song and then wants to dance in the street her response is something of the lines of “Can you calm it down a bit, I’m American?” Well I am not American but I understand her sentiment.
My friend and I were talking about this only the other week. I was saying how I love the idea of grand gestures, unannounced arrivals in the middle of the night (because they miss me, not because they’re drunk), surprise flowers, fiery arguments followed by even more fiery making up, declarations of undying love and singing under my window (alright that’s going a bit far). My friend then pointed out to me that in fact when any of these things have happened I hadn’t liked it at all.
I think I only like the idea of these things. In my head I am the heroine waiting to be swept off her feet by some dark, brooding, tanned Johnny Depp lookalike, but, with an Italian/Spanish/French (delete as applicable), who within hours of meeting me declares undying love, which I at first ignore but he eventually wins me over with his persistence. In reality I am not overly romantic and if I’ve said no, I generally mean no so there isn’t any amount of perusal would change my mind.
So, to enlighten you as to why I am an expert on such matters here are just some of my encounters with the passionate Portuguese, Italian stallions and beguiling Bulgarians to name a few.
A few years ago whilst on holiday in Spain I met a Portuguese man called Ramiro. He was a handsome man, but after only one kiss he was texting every day and even told me he loved me. The texting went on for about six months. On my return to Spain I had to hide from him for fear he might produce an engagement ring. I may be a good kisser, but not even I believe that I am so good that this behaviour was warranted. I just put it down to mental instability, but now I’m not sure.
There was the French man who after only meeting and chatting once, seemed to appear everywhere I went telling me how much he liked me and wanting me to visit him in Bordeaux.
More recently there has been the incident of the crazy Italian (anybody who knows me well, will know about this one). The long and short of it was we met, went on two dates and he vanished for three months. Only to reappear by putting an apologetic note through my door followed by text messages for the next month to try and persuade me to meet him, accompanied by stroppiness, begging and even a mention of a short break away, eventually he went away.
On a recent trip to Bulgaria I spoke to a man about going into his bar. The following night when I arrive the response was immense “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here, oh my God this is great.” Again I am not sure my entrance warranted this response. To be fair though the way he acted was amusing and I am sure I could live with it if all men decided to act like that when I entered a room.
To be honest I find all this behaviour quite unnerving and although amusing I think that on the whole although at the time of the declaration of love they may genuinely think they mean it, I also suspect they may feel like that about a whole array of other women.
This is why from now on I am saying that British is best. There may be no scaling balconies, serenading (well other than drunk karaoke), turning up unannounced with flowers, chocolates, notes through the door or offers of marriage after a week of knowing each other, but at least you know when the L word is said it is genuine. After all these Latino lovelies need to “calm it down a bit. I’m British”.
Monday, 5 July 2010
Here they come the beautiful ones
Some people claim that when it comes to the opposite sex that they don't have a type, I cannot say the same, for I love pretty men. It all started quite early on in my life, as I recall I was about four years old and my crush was on Adam Ant. Now you don't get much prettier than that, the man wore a face full of make-up for goodness sake. Fair enough his not much of a looker now, but back in the day and in my four year old mind he was beautiful.
By the age of eight I had moved on to John Taylor from Duran Duran. Since then there have been numerous beautiful celebrities that have captured my heart and mind, the Goss brothers (from Bros), Jordan Knight from New Kids on the Block, Johnny Depp, River Phoniex, the list is endless. Current favourites and have been for a while are David Beckham, Henry the Eigth himself (well Jonathan Rhys Myers) and my love of many years standing Jude Law.
Now this all sounds harmless but in my every day life I have a passion for pretty men as well. Give me a man with cheekbones, great teeth, a chisled jaw and usually way too much time to spend on his hair and I am putty.
I have dated many pretty men, but the problem that I encounter is I like to believe they are naturally beautiful and don't need any help, which unfortunately is never the case. Having waited outside a tanning parlour whilst a boyfriend went on a sunbed I know that all beauty comes at a cost (to be honest a little bit of love died that day). There have also been traumas in shops over what shirt best suits skin tone, discoveries of eyebrow plucking, hair tinting and realising that some of them take longer to get dressed than me, yet still I can't resist.
The main problem with this is that I am still single, which tells me that dating pretty boys isn't working out for me. I don't think that the two are connected but I think it's time to take heed of the saying that "a change is as good as a rest". I did try this a couple of years ago on a project I labelled 'dating outside my type', there were rugby players, skinny men with glasses, and all other types. I had some great dates and met some lovely men but none of them clicked.
I think part of the reason that none of them worked was because my heart wasn't in it, but I am about to embark on a new project called 'not pretty boys'. A male friend once told me (and I paraphrase) that I needed to "start spending more time with men who preferred sport and meat to fancy hair dos and clothes", so that is what I am going to do.
So far I have encountered two problems with this plan problem one two none pretty boys that I like don't seem to be interested in me and problem two is that if I manage to get myself a man who thinks I am prettier than he is I can't guarantee that my head won't be turned if Jude Laws better looking brother turns up at my door.
I'll keep you posted.
Friday, 25 June 2010
Where are All the Single Men?
Again I find myself with yet another problem. There appears to be a shortage of single men. This may sound like I am been dramatic and maybe I am, maybe there are single men all over the place but if so I am totally oblivious. I’m not desperate for a man, but admittedly there has been a bit of a drought on the dating front and it’s dull, dull, dull.
Every time I spot a hottie I then also see a glimpse of that shimmering white gold (nobody seems to have yellow gold anymore) band. It’s now got so bad that the minute I spot a fit man rather than looking at his eyes or smile (my two favourite features on a man), my eyes are drawn to his left hand.
The other problem I have encountered is where do hell do people meet single men? Bars are out as most of the single men in bars are out for one thing (and it’s not necessarily dating) or they are so drunk that their approach my be a bit off, trust me leering and slurring “nice tits love” or “you’re fit” with beer breathe doesn’t do it for me.
I work in a mainly female company so the work place is definitely a no-go, and in a previous life having had a few work based flirtations (which we won’t dwell on) I think it’s best to steer clear, arguing at work and tears in the boardroom are not great for anyone’s career especially his.
Other suggestions I’ve had are getting friends to fix you up. This I think is a massive myth. All of my friends who are loved up claim that their boyfriends’/husbands either a) have no single friends or b) no single friends that I would like. This leaves me with a bit of a complex that either I am so awful (translation a bit of a minger) that my friends think there are no men that could possibly find me attractive or the other option is that I am so mean and a heartbreaker that they don’t want to be around for the aftermath if things don’t work out (to be fair I have been guilty of this, but in my youth, I’m much kinder now, honest). I like to hope that neither of these things are true but I have my suspicions’.
Dating sites aren’t my cup of tea either. I’ve had a look but after a while all the men blur into one. Also I have never been a fan of enforced fun and that’s what dating sites feel like to me, sort of in the same way that fancy dress is meant to be fun but really I spend my time just feeling like an idiot in fancy dress. Dating sites to me are exactly the same and what if nobody on there wanted to date me, confidence crushing or what?
I also know that some of the problem is mine. For example there is a man I find attractive but I only see him walking through the park on my way to work, we’ve gone from smiling to hello, but how do you progress from hello in the two seconds it takes to pass each other on a morning. It’s becoming exhausting thinking about what to wear everyday in case I bump into him.
The other issue I have is when I fancy somebody I am rendered mute. For people who know me well I am sure there have been plenty of times they wish I had been rendered mute, they just didn’t know that the key was putting me in front of a man I fancy. Most of the time I like to think I am quite witty, friendly and good fun (oh and modest), but put a hot man in the room and I become silent and come across as rude, cold and distant, not attractive.
So if anybody knows any hot entertaining men with nice eyes, great smile and without a white gold band, who are looking for somebody who can be witty, friendly and good fun but will instead be silent then let me know. Form an orderly queue boys.
Every time I spot a hottie I then also see a glimpse of that shimmering white gold (nobody seems to have yellow gold anymore) band. It’s now got so bad that the minute I spot a fit man rather than looking at his eyes or smile (my two favourite features on a man), my eyes are drawn to his left hand.
The other problem I have encountered is where do hell do people meet single men? Bars are out as most of the single men in bars are out for one thing (and it’s not necessarily dating) or they are so drunk that their approach my be a bit off, trust me leering and slurring “nice tits love” or “you’re fit” with beer breathe doesn’t do it for me.
I work in a mainly female company so the work place is definitely a no-go, and in a previous life having had a few work based flirtations (which we won’t dwell on) I think it’s best to steer clear, arguing at work and tears in the boardroom are not great for anyone’s career especially his.
Other suggestions I’ve had are getting friends to fix you up. This I think is a massive myth. All of my friends who are loved up claim that their boyfriends’/husbands either a) have no single friends or b) no single friends that I would like. This leaves me with a bit of a complex that either I am so awful (translation a bit of a minger) that my friends think there are no men that could possibly find me attractive or the other option is that I am so mean and a heartbreaker that they don’t want to be around for the aftermath if things don’t work out (to be fair I have been guilty of this, but in my youth, I’m much kinder now, honest). I like to hope that neither of these things are true but I have my suspicions’.
Dating sites aren’t my cup of tea either. I’ve had a look but after a while all the men blur into one. Also I have never been a fan of enforced fun and that’s what dating sites feel like to me, sort of in the same way that fancy dress is meant to be fun but really I spend my time just feeling like an idiot in fancy dress. Dating sites to me are exactly the same and what if nobody on there wanted to date me, confidence crushing or what?
I also know that some of the problem is mine. For example there is a man I find attractive but I only see him walking through the park on my way to work, we’ve gone from smiling to hello, but how do you progress from hello in the two seconds it takes to pass each other on a morning. It’s becoming exhausting thinking about what to wear everyday in case I bump into him.
The other issue I have is when I fancy somebody I am rendered mute. For people who know me well I am sure there have been plenty of times they wish I had been rendered mute, they just didn’t know that the key was putting me in front of a man I fancy. Most of the time I like to think I am quite witty, friendly and good fun (oh and modest), but put a hot man in the room and I become silent and come across as rude, cold and distant, not attractive.
So if anybody knows any hot entertaining men with nice eyes, great smile and without a white gold band, who are looking for somebody who can be witty, friendly and good fun but will instead be silent then let me know. Form an orderly queue boys.
Sunday, 13 June 2010
Will I ever learn?
Admittedly the question asked in the title is rhetorical as if my behaviour after 32 years on this earth is anything to go by then I know that the answer is a big fat no.
The main thing I have learnt are there are a few things I never learn about. The first of these is excessive alcohol consumption, no matter how bad the head, how painful the bruises, how shameful the photographs and memories, no matter how many times I wake up and proclaim that my body is a temple and alcohol shall never pass my lips again I have never learnt when enough is enough.
This is a problem. I have never been one of those people who knows when to stop. You know the type of girl who after the third glass of wine switches to soft drinks as she can feel herself getting tipsy. No sir that’s not me, I fall (sometimes quite literally) into the camp of people who believe they are sober right up until the point that all memory and dignity has gone.
There have been incidents crawling through windows, stealing what we (no names mentioned) thought was a Christmas tree only to discover it was a Rosemary bush, losing my keys and having to wake my mate up at 3am (thanks Lisa), falling off a stage, and my favourite, upon been approached in a nightclub and asked to dance by an attractive man stating “no he doesn’t fancy me, I think he is gay. I think he just wants to dance with me because he is the best male dancer in here and I am the best girl dancer here”. Really, the greatest dancer, I don’t think so.
I have never learnt that texting when drunk is a no no, actually, using the phone at all can be a no no. To date I have called a potential date from a toilet cubicle to tell him all about my new shoes, for about 25 minutes, miraculously he still took me out the next day. I have had crazy text arguments that I have no recollection of , one of which resulted in my waking up to a message from somebody I had been seeing saying “well if that’s the way you feel, I agree we probably shouldn’t see each other anymore” oops. These are to name but a few.
I have also never learnt that I can’t just have one piece of chocolate. I know people that can keep a bar of chocolate in the fridge for a week and limit themselves to a square a day. I have tried this and the whole time the chocolate is in the fridge I can hear it calling me “Becky come and eat me”, the outcome is always the same a mouth full of chocolate, feelings of remorse and vows to not eat anymore so called ‘bad’ foods for a week.
Finally what I have never learnt (or never remember, despite the massive window) is that my neighbours can see straight into my flat. This has led to interesting events including indecent exposure (it was only exposure of a bra), them been able to see when I am been nosey and finally them also been able to witness me practising the moves that make me “the best girl dancer” in any club.
The main thing I have learnt are there are a few things I never learn about. The first of these is excessive alcohol consumption, no matter how bad the head, how painful the bruises, how shameful the photographs and memories, no matter how many times I wake up and proclaim that my body is a temple and alcohol shall never pass my lips again I have never learnt when enough is enough.
This is a problem. I have never been one of those people who knows when to stop. You know the type of girl who after the third glass of wine switches to soft drinks as she can feel herself getting tipsy. No sir that’s not me, I fall (sometimes quite literally) into the camp of people who believe they are sober right up until the point that all memory and dignity has gone.
There have been incidents crawling through windows, stealing what we (no names mentioned) thought was a Christmas tree only to discover it was a Rosemary bush, losing my keys and having to wake my mate up at 3am (thanks Lisa), falling off a stage, and my favourite, upon been approached in a nightclub and asked to dance by an attractive man stating “no he doesn’t fancy me, I think he is gay. I think he just wants to dance with me because he is the best male dancer in here and I am the best girl dancer here”. Really, the greatest dancer, I don’t think so.
I have never learnt that texting when drunk is a no no, actually, using the phone at all can be a no no. To date I have called a potential date from a toilet cubicle to tell him all about my new shoes, for about 25 minutes, miraculously he still took me out the next day. I have had crazy text arguments that I have no recollection of , one of which resulted in my waking up to a message from somebody I had been seeing saying “well if that’s the way you feel, I agree we probably shouldn’t see each other anymore” oops. These are to name but a few.
I have also never learnt that I can’t just have one piece of chocolate. I know people that can keep a bar of chocolate in the fridge for a week and limit themselves to a square a day. I have tried this and the whole time the chocolate is in the fridge I can hear it calling me “Becky come and eat me”, the outcome is always the same a mouth full of chocolate, feelings of remorse and vows to not eat anymore so called ‘bad’ foods for a week.
Finally what I have never learnt (or never remember, despite the massive window) is that my neighbours can see straight into my flat. This has led to interesting events including indecent exposure (it was only exposure of a bra), them been able to see when I am been nosey and finally them also been able to witness me practising the moves that make me “the best girl dancer” in any club.
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Holiday...Celebrate (well starve)
Uh oh next Friday I go on holiday, now I know you are wondering why I am saying uh oh to the prospect of a week of doing nothing other than lying by the pool, basking in the sun with no bigger concern other than what cocktail to have next, so I shall explain.
The reason I say uh oh to the prospect of my holiday is because I know that the next few days are going to be hell. There are two reasons for this, firstly, whenever you are looking forward to something time goes ridiculously slowly. So what should be a few days at work will feel like weeks, maybe months. Secondly, and this is my main reason because the next few days are going to be a nightmare. Pure hell, a constant battle not to eat chocolate, to avoid so called bad food and to make my body a temple in a bid to look Kim Kardashian (my own personal body idol) in a bikini.
Why do I do this? The holiday was booked in February which is plenty of time to lose the last half a stone (it’s always half a stone), but no, rather than doing slow and steady every year I go into panic mode. To be fair I am wise enough to know that unless I starve myself (this will never happen) I am not going to lose half a stone by Friday. I also know that as Kim Kardashians’ body looks like it may have had a little help from somebody other than God, that unless I stumble across a few spare grand and a surgeon in the next few days my body won’t look like that. Even though I know this I still know that for the next week I will have salad for lunch every day and go to the gym excessively.
In addition to this I will suddenly start exfoliating (something I rarely do) moisturising all over and introduce the new ritual of checking my cellulite at regular intervals. I am always aware that I have cellulite, but I tend to ignore it on the basis of if I can’t see it it doesn’t exist. It is only when faced with the prospect of spending a week in a bikini (which let’s face it ladies is just like going out in your pants and bra, but deemed socially acceptable) do I decide to check on it and trust me it’s not pretty.
In addition to regular cellulite checks I will also spend time in front of the mirror breathing in to see if I can make my stomach look flatter and how long I can stay like that before I have to give up and breathe out. On top of all this between the not eating, gyming, cellulite checking and breathing in I also have to find time to pack, it’s a hard life. The irony is that even if by some miracle I lose half a stone in a week, I can pretty much guarantee that by the time I get back home with all the food and drink I will have put nearly all of it back on anyway.
I know I am not the only one to be neurotic around holiday time but the stupid thing about it is that after one day in my bikini it will feel totally normal to be walking around half naked, thoughts of cellulite will be forgotten and I will once again be able to go back to concentrating on the important things in life like what cocktail to have next.
Happy holidays
The reason I say uh oh to the prospect of my holiday is because I know that the next few days are going to be hell. There are two reasons for this, firstly, whenever you are looking forward to something time goes ridiculously slowly. So what should be a few days at work will feel like weeks, maybe months. Secondly, and this is my main reason because the next few days are going to be a nightmare. Pure hell, a constant battle not to eat chocolate, to avoid so called bad food and to make my body a temple in a bid to look Kim Kardashian (my own personal body idol) in a bikini.
Why do I do this? The holiday was booked in February which is plenty of time to lose the last half a stone (it’s always half a stone), but no, rather than doing slow and steady every year I go into panic mode. To be fair I am wise enough to know that unless I starve myself (this will never happen) I am not going to lose half a stone by Friday. I also know that as Kim Kardashians’ body looks like it may have had a little help from somebody other than God, that unless I stumble across a few spare grand and a surgeon in the next few days my body won’t look like that. Even though I know this I still know that for the next week I will have salad for lunch every day and go to the gym excessively.
In addition to this I will suddenly start exfoliating (something I rarely do) moisturising all over and introduce the new ritual of checking my cellulite at regular intervals. I am always aware that I have cellulite, but I tend to ignore it on the basis of if I can’t see it it doesn’t exist. It is only when faced with the prospect of spending a week in a bikini (which let’s face it ladies is just like going out in your pants and bra, but deemed socially acceptable) do I decide to check on it and trust me it’s not pretty.
In addition to regular cellulite checks I will also spend time in front of the mirror breathing in to see if I can make my stomach look flatter and how long I can stay like that before I have to give up and breathe out. On top of all this between the not eating, gyming, cellulite checking and breathing in I also have to find time to pack, it’s a hard life. The irony is that even if by some miracle I lose half a stone in a week, I can pretty much guarantee that by the time I get back home with all the food and drink I will have put nearly all of it back on anyway.
I know I am not the only one to be neurotic around holiday time but the stupid thing about it is that after one day in my bikini it will feel totally normal to be walking around half naked, thoughts of cellulite will be forgotten and I will once again be able to go back to concentrating on the important things in life like what cocktail to have next.
Happy holidays
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