cheap as chips...not quite

“OMG I’ve just got free tickets for Guns ‘N’ Roses, quick type this website into Google”

I look like I’ve just been tasered as I frantically type in the web address under my colleagues command.

“OK now register for an account, quick” I do as I’m told.

“Right now enter the code”

“What code?” I reply half shouting.

“Oh God, follow me I think I still have it on my PC”

We both take to the floor in a sudden burst of ‘Challenge Anneka’.  He reads out the code and I scrawl it across my palm, in record time we are back at my desk and I’m typing the digits in a blur.  Another window pops up – How many tickets do you want?  My mouse pointer is all over the screen as my body is going into a nervous convulsion through fear of not getting these tickets.  I wouldn’t mind but I don’t even like G ‘n’ R!?  Seconds later an email comes through, Congratulations!  You have two free tickets. Result.  You can’t beat a bit of spontaneity and for free too…bonus.

As we drive into Manchester, the Oracle says in his infinite wisdom says “I know exactly where to park”.  I role my eyes, I just know this is going to be painful.  I spy down at my Birkenstock's and smile, thank God I chose flats.  Having parked over a mile away we began the epic trek to the M.E.N Arena to exchange the email confirmation for the real deal.  We’ve been walking for 10 minutes at warp speed and I can feel the soles of my feet start to burn.  As we approach the box office the floor is littered with teeny head bangers waiting to experience the thrill of a rock gig and my feet now feel like they’ve been dowsed in petrol and set alight, burning and stinging with every step. I slip off the shoe from my left foot and on the ball of my foot a 2 inch bubble of liquid has been kindly delivered to me. Great, I’m going to be on my knees walking home, I just know it.

Tickets collected, we are out the door and into the pub.  My first pint is liquid gold. It’s my night to drink and I’m gonna make the most of it. We view an array of menus before deciding pub grub will do and as I place my order at the bar, “2 Cajun chicken burgers and 2 bowls of hand-cut chips please” the guy behind the till raises his eyebrows and says “And 2 bowls of hand-cut chips?”  I look left, I look right and then back at the barman “Err, yes please”.  20 minutes later the table comprises of 4, yes 4, bowls of chips and 2 pieces of Cajun chicken that you could hammer a nail with.  It would seem that the barman failed to mention that the burgers already came with chips! And at £30 I think it’s safe to say we were shafted.

Moving on swiftly we meet up with my buddy and his Dad; meat inspector Stevo (as his son affectionately calls him) where we chat about all things musical and catch up on the latest gossip at work. Not wanting to miss the supporting act (Thin Lizzy) they leave at 7.30pm prompt but my husband, not wanting to conform, insists we head out for more drinks and of course I don’t object.  When we finally arrive in the arena and to my surprise I hear my name shouted from somewhere in front, but I can’t see a face.  As the crowds clear I spot the unforgettable face of Paul Regent, a tall skinny lad that I had a major crush on in my final year of secondary school.  Naturally he looked older (as no doubt I did too) but his once delicious fiery red hair was now a dull brown and he looked rather like David Seaman in the bosh light (sans the facial fuzz!).  Without being modest, I like to think I have the Ugly Duckling Syndrome.

I’m on my 5^th pint of cider now as we make our way down to our seat.  It’s almost 9pm and Thin Lizzy are still going strong.  “Isn’t the main band supposed to come on at 9?” I mouth to my fella over the noise.  He shrugs looking as confused as me.  The next time I look at the watch its 10.15pm and there are no signs that the old timers donned in tight leather are stopping.  An image flashes in my head; Thin Lizzy playing continuously on stage, ageing before my very eyes. Shrinking and wrinkling, their music slowing down like an LP on slow play until they eventually halt and turn to dust.  If only...

Bang on 10.30pm the band offers their gratitude to the fans below and depart.  40 minutes and 10 Mexican waves later the lights are cut and Axl Rose bounds on stage sporting a Texan Stetson, a 70’s porn ‘tash and a face a tight as a melon in Lycra. Grim.  Nevertheless, he’s banging out the tunes and the crowd is going wild.  It’s now 1.00am, I have consumed 7 pints of alcoholic beverages and my vision is nothing but blurry, both he and I have had enough and so exit the concert.  Crap, I’ve totally forgot about Himalayan slog back to the car and in my heavily drunk state it’s one step forward and 2 steps back.  My man is less than impressed. “You’re a nightmare when you’re drunk, why can’t you be more like me.  I’m a great drunk”.  There is only one word that can be used here, DELUDED.  When I finally enter the car park a good 10 minutes after my man I can see he’s not a happy bunny.  The fee is £15.90, I swear I can see steam escaping from his ears and nose and then the ticket machine won’t take his notes… Sensibly I walk straight past and leave him to it.  This so called ‘free’ night has cost us £80.

Rough does not even come close to how I’m feeling.   Do you know how difficult it is to pretend you don’t have the worse hangover in the world?  Well I’ll tell you – it’s HELL.   It’s even worse trying to conceal it from your husband who has a smug ‘I told you not to drink too much’ face on.  Hobbling about the bedroom I prepare to slap on the war paint.  I decide to go for the bright eyed look with lilac eyeshadow and blue mascara, but if I’m honest it probably only enhanced the dense yellow of my eyes.   Wincing as I squeeze on a pair of kitten heels I pray to the good Lord above that he will take pity on me. And he does. I’m left to get on with my workload in peace as I intermittently swear I will never drink again, well not on a school night...

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x

digital detox

Hands up those of you who have some sort of online persona, OK plenty of hands up I see.  Right well how many of you have had this alias created and maintained by your husband? Ah…just me then.

A few months ago I introduced the Twitter application to my beloved not thinking he would be the slightest bit interested but oh how wrong I was.  Since that fateful evening I seem to have lost a part of him somewhere in the ether that I fear I may never get back. For want of a better word, he’s ADDICTED.  In some ways I’m really glad that he’s ‘hip’ and ‘bang on trend’ as those young folk say, but in another way I feel a little sad that most mornings and every evening is consumed by him tweeting and twittering about a load of old cobblers. 

I have to give it to him though, he’s only been on the site for 4 months and already he has 1,500 dedicated followers – an achievement not to be scoffed at! But it seems these days the only way I can get a brew out of him is to tweet the beast! 

So as I was saying about my newly acquired identity, dare I share it? ‘Tits Magoo’.  Oh the shame.  I’m going to say I don’t know why he has given me this nickname to save me from any further embarrassment; but I’m sure you can work it out for yourself!  And so now, on a regular basis his disciples get their routine updates about the life and times of Tits Magoo.  ‘Tits Magoo is doing this….’  ‘Tit’s Magoo is doing that…’ and when he’s not tweeting about me he’s declaring war on all those who wear 'Crocs'. Poor sods. In fact, he once created frenzy with the R.S.P.C.A when he threatened to shoot a duck after it turned its nose (well, beak) up at our Jacobs crackers!

Several months ago I met with a chap at a networking event (now a very good colleague of mine) where we talked about the prospects of a digital detox.  At first I was quite shocked.  A digital detox in this day and age! How would we cope? But after recent events I think I’d quite welcome it.  I’m not deluded, I know I am being completely contradictory here but I see this blog as my weekly therapy session more than anything else. 

Perhaps you think I may be jealous!?  And in a way I am, because all those lovely people who are following my fella seem to be getting the best of him yet, I’m left with a burnt out husk of a man with repetitive strain injury of the thumbs.

So how are you going to tackle this conundrum I hear you shout – in true feminine style my friends, I’ll go shopping!

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x

jinxed

They say money goes to those with money. I think the same applies with luck.  After a dramatic end to last week I was determined to stay cool, calm and relaxed but it seemed that Lady Luck had other plans for me…

Like most women with children, I try to be a good mum. Library visits, countryside walks and trips to the park but what do I get for all my trouble? Kicked in the face - literally.  To be fair the week had started off quite well despite a little work-related stress, but as every one knows ‘All work and no play'...makes me and my little ‘un a pair of miserable farts so this Thursday we went swimming. All was going swimmingly (no pun intended) until 10 minutes before we were due to leave when she said ‘Mummy watch this’ and before I knew it her tiny, bony foot had made full contact with the bridge of my nose.  I didn’t even see it coming; I just saw the floating lights as I cupped my hands over my face.  Within seconds the pool looked like a scene from Jaws and quickly transformed into a scene from E.T as life guards appeared from nowhere, whistles were blown and the pool was on ‘lockdown’.  Despite the immediate (and excruciating) pain I was more upset for my baby girl.  When she saw the blood she was devastated at hurting her poor old Mum. 

The next day felt like I’d been smacked in the face by Mike Tyson and my head was pounding. How I didn’t end up with two black-eyes I’ll never know! I desperately wanted a ‘Quite day in the office’ (if there is such a thing) but my hopes were shattered as I was broached by a colleague en route to my desk.  As we chatted I signalled with a head nod that I needed to stop to fasten my shoe.  Raising my leg onto the step my trouser leg split from the crotch down to the knee on my left leg.  OMG!  I couldn’t stop myself – I let out an almighty shriek which I immediately regretted as it brought additional unwanted attention.  My workmate saw the enormous rip which revealed more flesh than i care to mention and howled with laughter. 
Between the fits of giddiness she managed to wrap my poncho around the back of my legs as I grabbed it from the front.  Together we hobbled to her office, circumnavigating the onlookers, with the promise of reinforced thread and a needle.  It was a humiliating scene; sat in her room in a most unattractive skin coloured thong I preceded to stitch the trouser leg under a canopy of cackling laughter.  I’d like to say this was the most embarrassing day of my life but looking back there has been worse as I’m sure you can imagine…

To rub salt into the wound my husband and I went out Saturday night round Manchester.  Only in the third pub, I had as they say, ‘Broke the seal’ and needed yet another wee.  Stood at the hand-dryer I was eyeing up the novelty ‘Toys’ for sale in the vending machine.  Not wanting to be too adventurous to early I opted for a ‘Wind-up Willy’ at the bargain price of £2. After several attempts at putting in the coins and having them slide back down to me (I should have seen that as a sign!) they eventually stayed in the machine.  Apparently all I had to do was ‘pull the drawer’.  I was pulling for Queen and country but the bugger didn’t move.  I know it was only two quid and I probably should have just walked away and forgot about it but I was the principle of it – the beast had taken my money and I wanted my goods!  So off I marched to see the Landlady to explain how I’d lost my money in that vending machine…all was well with a refund.

I know what you’re thinking ‘She must be making this stuff up’ – I promise you I am not.  It’s always been the same, there is always some disaster lurking in the shadows to strike at any moment.  And would you believe it - my neighbours have foolishly left their fish with us whilst they are away…need I say anymore.

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x

just one of those days

The alarm was ringing in my head like a bad case of tinnitus, I felt this god awful mood sweep over me and I just knew it was going to be one of those days. Mornings in our house are like organised chaos and the only form of communication between the three of us are pre-historic grunts.

I swear I’ve given birth to a turtle. I’ve never known a child be so slow at dressing herself. I don’t know about you but I’m pretty sure that 50 minutes to put on 5 items of clothing is a little excessive! It’s the same thing every day…“Honey put your sock on… (10 minutes later…) OK now put the other one on” In fact my husband and I have come to the conclusion that she is to get ready for school on the landing where she can concentrate solely on dressing herself without the distraction of Edward Cullen peering down at her from the Twilight poster. Saying that, I’m no better myself – I’m forever leggin’ it into the car half dressed, make-up bag in hand and of course this morning was no different.

When I heard my husband revving the car engine impatiently I ran into the dressing room, chucked on the latest addition to my shoe collection; black and white, heeled, lace up brogues and took to the stairs two at a time. I was totally amazed that I had made it down in one piece. But it seems that I had spoken too soon - as I went to step out the front door I went flying head first having stood on one of my unfastened laces. In sheer frustration I grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut. HOLY SHIT BALLS! The feeling of dread came over me faster than an orgasm. The keys were still in the door – on the inside!! True to his drama queen roots my husband shot out the car and was rattling the handle in record time and in a moment of surrealism I watched him crouch on his knees, head in hands. And so begins crappy day # (I’ve lost count!)

I’d like to say that the journey to work was a pleasant one, but it wasn’t. My attempt not to look like Coco the clown in my application of make-up en route to work was failing miserably. As I was trying to apply a delicate layer of ‘SHOCKING BLACK’ liquid eyeliner to my eyelid we hit what felt like a crater in the road and the result was more like Alice Cooper in a monsoon. Having nothing to remove the tenacious substance I was left with no option but to try and transform this already hideous look into something more acceptable for the work place and so went from Goth to Jezebel in 0.8 seconds. Why do I bother?

At some point during the day my other half had managed to acquire a length of ‘bendy’ wire. (I really loved that in our hour of need there were so many people willing to help us even if it was just with a suggestion. Who said community spirit was dead?!) So when we arrived home after picking up the little one, out came the wire. Held together with a double layer of cello-tape my other half was desperately struggling to remove it and in my bid to help his frustration (and have him wipe his snotty nose) I rushed over with the car key as a solution to breaking the seal. In my enthusiasm I slice the key rapidly down the clear tape and somehow into my index finger nail ripping it back, down to the flesh. My eyes watered as I watched the watery red fluid drip to the floor. Gritting my teeth, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

After 15 minutes of hooking, pulling, unhooking and re-hooking I could see we were getting no where. In absolute irritation and weariness I watched as my fella’ raised his leg and kicked out hard at the door and to both our surprise, the door gives quite easy. (This was probably due to the fact that 6 weeks before we moved in to our ‘Casa Bella’ the previous tenant hung himself – but that’s for another blog…) So just another few kicks and two busted locks later, we were in. I dread to think what the neighbours thought.

An hour round trip to the local D.I.Y saw us 50 quid lighter and upon our return my husband wasted no time in hacking the door to pieces to fit the new locks. One lock down and one to go only added insult to injury as the last lock didn’t fit, of course it wouldn’t, why would it? That would be too easy. So, not only did we waste £25 but we also got to sleep with one eye open for free! I’m not good with the dark (my husband will confirm) so any strange noises over the next few nights may result in GBH of his back…with my nails. Sleep tight all you lovely, safe people.

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x

it's payback time...

We’ve all seen the advert – slim, sleek and totally mesmerising.  You’d be forgiven for thinking I’m talking about a woman here but I am, in fact, talking about a phone!  I’ve never been a ‘techno junkie’ but as time goes on  I am finding that these shiny and incredible gadgets are making my eyebrows raise just a little…So when I saw the commercial for the new; all singing, all dancing Samsung Galaxy Note I think it’s fair to say my mouth was watering.  Despite already owning a smart phone that was just 12 months old I wanted this mobile more than anything in the world and at all costs.  Reading this back, thinking about the dilemma that followed - the phone was and is NOT worth it.

Having contacted my provider and being told that my upgrade was not due for another 12 months my mind raced…how was I going to get this phone?  There was no way I could pay for it outright at a whopping £600, so it had to be some form of monthly payment.  So to cut a long story short I committed the cardinal sin of purchasing an additional contract.  I don’t care to recall how many arguments this caused and yes I know that this is a silly thing to do just for a bloody phone.

There was light at the end of the tunnel, or so I thought.  I sold my previous phone back to the provider for the tidy sum of £100 and made a promise that this money was going to one side to help pay for the monthly bills so naturally I was on the high street, green in hand, faster than a turd down a ‘U’ bend!  New handbag, new shoes and two bobby-dazzling fake tan mitts later I had serious buyer’s remorse.

To return the old mobile I had to restore it to its factory settings and so before sending it back, thinking I was being ‘tech savvy’ I transferred all my contacts and files onto an external hard drive.  When it came to relocating them, at the click of a button, I thought it was done. Good times.  All the music files went across nice and bonnie, but wait, where are the contacts?  No contacts.  It would seem that I am not that ‘tech savvy’ after all.  But no worries, I have a back up – it’s called an address book.  I know, who has an address book these days, but I was grateful for this small mercy.  Onto the pictures, approximately 3,500 images; Daisy’s baby pictures, wedding photo’s, parties, holidays and nights out, all my favourite memories securely bundled together with a big digital bow.   They say a Librarians job is being interrupted, never a truer word said.  After dealing with several matters in the work place, returning to my desk it appears my files have transferred smoothly and the remaining files can be deleted…‘ARE YOU SURE YOU WISH TO DELETE THESE FILES?’…DELETE…

I know you know what’s coming.  The files did NOT transfer smoothly, in fact they didn’t transfer at all and almost 7 years of blood, sweat and tears were evaporated into the ether. Perhaps a woman’s multi-tasking abilities are over estimated (on occasions!).  Is this ‘God paying me back’ for being a selfish, spoilt brat? It sure feels that way. Bad times.

Having had the phone now for over a week I do think it is ‘totes amaze balls’, or so my daughter tells me, I can’t get a look-in. But it’s certainly not been worth losing all those pictorial records of my baby growing up or my marriage blossoming.  The moral of the story I suppose (unfortunately the old ones are the best) is don’t put all your eggs in one basket and one for all you 21^st Century folk, back up and back up the back up!

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x

hen pecked

After being with a man for 7 years who left his finger nails on the couch arm to floss his teeth with you would think that ANY other man would be an improvement. 

Growing up, like any young girl, I fantasised about the house, the garden, the job, the dog, and the kids and of course the tall, dark and handsome man to keep me safe and content.  Wanting to take a spade to the back of his head somehow never featured in those warm and fuzzy fantasies – funny how things change. 

My previous relationship went through the usual ‘honeymoon’ period undoubtedly like everyone else’s, although being only 17, I didn’t think it would end before my 18^th birthday!  When our relationship inevitably ended after 10 years he sent me away with this worldly advice ‘Love is NOT like it is on the T.V’.  Now, between you and me I have seen enough ‘rom coms’ and read enough ‘chick lit’ to know that he was talking utter bollox (or so I naively thought).  I WOULD find my Prince Charming and he WILL love me for who I am, lumps and bumps and all and my life would be full of rainbows, singing birds and tranquillity.  Unfortunately after being with my new man and now husband for 5 years I’m inclined to agree with him.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am very much in love with this delicious dream boat of mine who has the most scrumptious bottom I have ever had the pleasure of squeezing but there are on occasions an extremely fine line between love and hate.  A very good friend of mine often says that relationships are a delicate balance on a knife edge – how right she is! 

In my previous relationship my ex was for want of a better word a slob and could often be found still in bed at 7.30am when he did in fact start work at 7.00am.  I felt more like his housekeeper than his fiancé and revelled when I washed a £20 note in his jeans because he was too bone-idle to check his pockets before leaving them strewn on the bedroom floor.  So when I was to embark in a new relationship I was determined NOT to be the maid and ooohh how the tables have turned.  I’m not here on bended knee, rosary beads in hand, confessing to being the world’s untidiest person but I will admit that since my yummy husband and I have settled into our delightful abode I have…shall we say…let standards slip.  So the house is a little dusty, so the washing basket is overflowing and the bath contains remnants of my last head-to-toe de-fuzz session…do I deserve to be yelled at?  Do I deserve his infamous DQ (Drama Queen) moments that cause an argument that denotes his silence for hours, the answer you are looking for here and I don’t mind helping you out is…NO.  However that does not stop him whining about the wet towels I leave over the bed or the mountain of shoes at the bottom of the stairs, it seems that HE is now the nagging wife I used to be and in the words of Marge Simpson “It’s aged me horribly”. OK help me out here…I’m running out of mental excuses…perhaps I do need a kick up the backside after all.

And so it does seems that love is not like it is on the telly or in books – it’s better!  It’s real. In my experience it involves commitment, passion, and effort and it makes you work bloody hard for its rewards.  Love is not about money or presents, flowers or chocolates, (though they help!!) it’s about sacrifice, compromise and lots and lots of patience.  The fact of the matter is this – Love is like a fart, if you have to force it, it’s probably shit! 

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x

fake and bake

Oh my god.  I don’t believe it, the big day is here and as I look down at my hands I can only shake my head.  They’re bright orange.  I’m not talking a subtle fake tan glow here, they actually look like I’ve been kneading radioactive poo. Gutted. Lay in bed surrounded by a haze of lager farts and morning breath, I run through a mental itinerary for today.  First I’m seeing mum so I can model tonight’s outfit and get her stamp of approval, then on to my nans for a quick cup of tea and a catch up on the family gossip.  I love the way that despite being house-bound she still remains the font of all knowledge when it comes to everyone else’s business – Don Cole, Mafia Nan.  I fancy dinner at our favourite café, Chester’s, but I’m going to have to work my magic on the ‘Bank Manager’ for that.  Sometimes I regret giving total financial responsibility to my husband; he’s tighter than a squirrel with his nuts in winter!  But if the finances were left to me, we’d probably be homeless so I have to be grateful for small mercies.

Later as I sit at my boudoir inspired dressing table and look at its contents, there appears to be more of me on its surface than there is in the super suck-in knickers I’m wearing.  More fake tan, fake eyelashes, fake nails and what women wouldn’t be complete without her chicken fillets.  And so begins the transformation from Quasimodo to Esmeralda.

What is it with these nylon covered bungee elastic garments? They are modelled by wafer thin girls who don’t have an ounce of additional flesh and are wrapped in the promise of a smooth, svelte figure.  However, I feel that the over-priced and hideous apparels lead us girlie's into a false sense of security.  Why do we pay ridiculous amounts of money to look like a bag of spuds tied in the middle?  I mean think about it - where is all this extra pulp expected to go?   Wearing these torturous undergarments may provide a visual inch-loss but in my experience everything gets thrust in a downward trajectory and I end up having knees the size of watermelons – not a good look at 31.

What ever happened to Au Natural? Oooh yes, that’s right…AGE!  I know I’m not the oldest book on the shelf but it does have to be said that good old gravity is working its mysterious magic on more than one area of my boobly body.  In fact if I’m honest I have no recollection of when things started to go…south.   That’s life.  After donning the freshly painted electric blue nails (to match the dress, of course) I realise that I am going to have to some how attach the goddamn eyelashes without gorging my eyeballs out with the newly acquired talons.  It’s at times like these I seriously want to win the lottery so I can hire someone to stick the mothers on.  I mean take that advert with J-Lo shaving her legs with a Gillette razor.  Shave ‘her own’ legs! I don’t think so - I bet it’s been year’s since the women wiped her own arse let alone shave a leg…(clap, clap) ‘Wipers’…(Coming to America – Eddie Murphy)

After applying another layer of fake tan, on goes the slap.   Big and bold is the theme, and as the handbag I’m taking is the size of a credit card Id’ better put on extra thick layer.  All done up like a dogs dinner I turn to see where my significant other is up to and he’s looking as dapper as ever.  Kitted out in uber pointy shoes, shirt and pants that embrace his bottom in a mouth-watering way, he’s my pocket-sized George Clooney and so I lean in for a sneaky kiss.

Dress on, shoes on and a surrounded by an atomic mushroom of Issey Miyake my husband and I await the cab that will take us to his (football) presentation evening. The word WAG unfortunately springs to mind but I don’t think either of us fit the criteria; him playing for a ‘vets’ team and me looking like Dawn French and the only hob-nobbing we’ll be doing is dunking them in a brew when we get home.

Wish me luck…

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x

there is a God!

As I wrestled with the hair dryer and straightener’s this morning I could hear the sound of huffing and puffing in the background. As I turned so see what all the fuss was about I saw my husband grappling with his newly bought trousers with the 32” waist and before you ask yes, there is a running theme in our house at the moment - WEIGHT GAIN!

I won’t make you blush with the expletives that were coming from his mouth (thankfully not in ear-shot of our daughter) but I couldn’t help but have a little smile to myself.  For too long now I have witnessed him shovelling pastries, pizzas and copious amounts of Merlot down his throat without so much as gaining a pound or two…(I won’t make you blush with MY expletives!) but looking at his Christmas pudding shaped belly it would appear that it’s caught up with him.   He was no different this morning from myself yesterday, the usual ‘Right that’s it – no more pastries, only one bottle of red a week and running and least 3 times a week’ were shouted at the top of his voice followed by ‘There is NO WAY I’m buying a 34” pair of pants’.  I dared not comment through fear of him remarking on my own weight gain so continued to style my hair with a very cheeky grin on my face.

Working in the same building as your husband does have its benefits; a sneaky cuddle when you’re feeling down, funds for lattes on ‘fudge cake Friday’ and days like today when he calls to say he’s popping to the local supermarket to buy something healthy for lunch.  Naturally when he returned and pulled out two, yes TWO pots of chocolate mousses followed by the excuse of ‘skipping breakfast’ I was not impressed and sat beside him salivating like a dog with a bone while he devoured them, clearly an amnesiac after this mornings drama queen performance.

I can’t say that I went out of my way today to avoid all things sweet ‘n’ sugary as I swilled down a Mocha with my morning toast but at the same time I haven’t been stood by the vending machine inserting my life savings so I’m calling that progress. 

I do have to confess that today has been a better day but I think this is due to the epiphany I had before dropping off.  As you know I was struggling to find the ‘perfect’ dress, the occasion – my husband’s sporting presentation evening this coming weekend and unsurprisingly I want to look best (or as good as I can given my size).  So as I lay there residing to the fact that time (and money) was running out I was going to have to settle for something from my wardrobe which for me is an absolute No-No!  I could never live with someone saying ‘Oh isn’t that the dress you wore for…’ and so one of my rules in life is ‘A new occasion ALWAYS needs a new outfit’ and why not as I work just as hard as the next women!  I digress… So as I was mentally flicking through my pre-worn items I suddenly pictured a dress; old, new, borrowed and blue just thrown over a hanger and classified in the ‘I’ll probably NEVER wear it but it’s just too nice to throw out’ category; old being that I have had it in my wardrobe for two years (at least), new as I acquired it BNWT’s and it was borrowed from a friend of a friend to which I never I returned… (Oh dear what was I saying about friends yesterday…) I presume I don’t need to explain the blue!  You wouldn’t believe the number of times I had tried that dress on and always settled for something else, it must in double figures now, and who do you contact with this fantastic news at some ungodly hour – your mother of course!  (Sorry mum).  After a couple of bleary eyed texts I slipped into a happy slumber and the world once again has been put to rights.

And so it seems my friends, with my husband’s deservedly weight gain and the dress quest complete…THERE IS A GOD!

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x

the beginning of the end...?

Lay in bed last night, spooning my husband the tears rolled down my cheeks.  God it's a bloody nightmare trying to cry quietly!  After having a pretty crappy day I asked my Twitter legend of a husband to drop me off at home whilst he went on to collect our daughter from the after school club.  As I opened the door I saw the pink and white parcel card on the floor and a little flicker of excitement shuddered through me.  My freshly ordered dress, shoes and handbag had arrived and although they appeared to have been launched over the back garden gate I couldn't wait to rip open the boxes and bags.  As I lifted the black satin tea dress from the box my heart sank at the shear size of the waist band, the label read '20'.  My brain suddenly began screaming!  Totally ignoring these screams I stripped and slid the dress on, looked at the hideous sight before me and let out a huge sigh.  This is the fourth dress I've ordered and the fourth dress I will be sending back!

When I woke up this morning I went through the same mental routine; right that's it I'm starting my diet today, no bread for breakfast, no chocolate today and I am definitely going to do some sort of exercise when I get home.  Sod's law I had another crappy day and as the hours ticked by my enthusiasm for all things healthy was weaning.  In recognition of my terrible day a colleague brought me some form home-cooked cake which appeared to be Shredded Wheat cover in chocolate...not content with just eating one, three cakes later I was wallowing in self pity.  So as the clock struck 4.30pm I was on the phone to my mincing mate and we arranged to go...dare I say it...JOGGING!!!!

Donned in Lycra and lime green trainers I was waiting with baited breath for his arrival.  The more time that went past the more I had visions of being taken to A & E with severe burns to the crotch due to heat generation from ones thighs rubbing together and two burst lungs!  I gave him a sneaky text insisting we walked first to build up my stamina and he dropped me like the 15st, 5ft imp I am implying that if I wasn't prepared to 'get my heart rate up' then there was no point!  Well who needs enemies when you have friends like that! 

It would have been all to easy for me to throw myself on the couch like a beached whale but instead headed out of the door stomping and huffing.  How? Why? What was this invisible force pulling me away from the promise of fish, chips and peas?  Did I care?  Should I care? I was actually doing this mystical activity called EXERCISE and without someone threatening me with a shitty stick!  Eureka!

During the walk I thrashed out a lot of stuff in my head; money worries, work worries, the bloody dresses and much more and I as I walked I could feel my back starting to ache more and more as I became aware of carrying the additional 4 stone I had acquired over the last few years.  I was amazed how far I had actually gone without thinking about it and although I wasn't sweating like a dieter in a confectioners I was pretty warm and did feel a sense of achievement upon return an hour later.

Could this be the beginning of the end of the dreaded spare tyre(s) and the epic journey from pig to twig...

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x