Author: Alison

A show of hands, please: who wants a designer vagina? WHY?? I mean, if we were all porn stars, with close-ups involved, I can kind of get it. For your average woman, let’s call (us) her: Madge, where’s the need for a 3000 quid vadge? Could you sketch yours? I only ask, because if I was seriously going to splash that much cash on a new vadge, I would want it to be fucking AMAZING! And perhaps I have a little stunner down there and I’d spend all that money, with some plastic surgeon rubbing his hands together, when if I’d actually taken time to look at it, I might have been able to save my dosh and spend it on an extension (house, not partner’s penis).

What do you actually get for your money? What IS a good-looking vagina? I need to consult my female gay friends on this one, because I really don’t know. I mean, does size matter when it comes to labia? The bigger, the better? Or does no-one care, as long as I am super gorgeous on the inside (so to speak). I know for sure that I don’t fucking care. I’m not the one with my head down there and I’d bet a quid that ‘he’ doesn’t give a shit what it looks like when he’s gone South to party.

I know that everyone has an opinion on the lady garden…but, let’s face it, that is purely decorative. What really matters is hidden – or not – beneath. Then, of course, beneath that is the holy grail and I seriously hope that no plastic surgeon is going to try to interfere with the golden buzzer.

So, back to the vadge – apparently, a labiaplasty, the procedure whereby portions of the labia are clipped off, is becoming increasingly common. For who? Who the hell can deal with the thought, let alone the reality, of getting their vadge clipped? I used to go to the hairdressers, armed with a photo of some celeb’s hairdo I wanted…is this where we are going with the vadge? I’d like J Lo please, or a Rihanna, or, god forbid, the Queen’s vadge (nowt as queer as folk).

Christ, I’ve pushed 4 kids out of mine. Seriously, why would I want to change something that has been road tested on some fucking serious pot holes? So Madge, I would keep your vadge just the way it is, honey. Quite honestly, why the hell wouldn’t you?

There’s been a lot in the media about how much alcohol the middle classes get through per day. It got me thinking, what would be the definition of a REALLY BAD day with the kids? I think it would go something like this:

6am
What wine goes with Cheerios?

7am
There’s caffeine in coffee. There’s wisdom in wine: let’s stay in our pyjamas today kids and eat haribos!

8am
I’m going to have a coffee to help me wake up, (having been woken up at 5am again) and wine to help me accept that this is going to happen every bloody morning for the foreseeable future.

10am
Either give me a glass of wine or fuck off with your: my baby sleeps through the night already!

11am
Mumeeeeee, MUUUMEEEE, MUUUUUUMEEEEEE!!! Wine is a necessary form of punctuation, in an otherwise monotonous dialogue.

12pm
One more glass of wine and I really will stop giving a shit. You know I normally say no TV in the afternoon – fuck it – fill your boots!

1pm
I know what I’m saying, but the wine’s doing the thinking: Peppa Pig is a jumped up, egotistical little moron!

2pm
Wine is basically grapes and therefore one of my five a day. Eat your banana sweetheart, mummy’s having a great big bunch of grapes.

3pm
I’m not counting your cups of tea, so stop counting my glasses of wine! (Don’t judge! Until YOU have dealt with my kids on a daily basis, don’t judge).

4pm
The kids woke me up at 5am, so technically I can open the wine at 4pm.

5pm
WINE! Because today’s shit is probably not going to improve TOMORROW! (At least the kids are already in their pyjamas).

6pm
I use wine in the same way as my husband uses duct tape – it fixes EVERYTHING! (Even having to watch: In the Night Garden on repeat. Fuck off Iggle Piggle. Just FUCK OFF!!)

7pm
What matters at the end of the day, isn’t the wine, it’s the moments you’ve had with your children, the memories you’re created, the people you’ve met…no, fuck it. It’s the wine that matters. Definitely the wine!

8pm
Wine is just an early morning headache, waiting to happen…helped by the 3 year old using my head as a trampoline.

10pm
Night, night.
Sleep tight.
See you in the morning
Even if you’re snoring…and have a really bad hangover – I’ll STILL be there at 5am to say: muuumeeee, MUUMEEEEEE, MUUUUUUMEEEEEEE!!!

My ‘keepin’ it real’ beauty blogs seem to be going down a treat. So much so, in fact that I am now taking requests (I wonder whether Zoella does that?) Don’t worry, though – one thing I will NEVER do is a ‘keepin’ it real’ beauty VLOG…if you think I’m getting my shit out for all to see, you are mistaken. In fact, after yesterday’s bingo wings blog, I covered up for the ladies’ class today, just in case they were judging. Of course they weren’t judging – that’s one thing we don’t do in that class. Christ, we have a laugh though. Even the warm-up had everyone squealing with laughter – out came the inner child. All they were doing was chucking a focus pad at each other. I wonder if the England rugby team sound like this at their training sessions, I said, as another screech was heard. Knees up ladies! came my familiar cry. But it makes my chin wobble! one of the ladies exclaimed. As long as you’re not talking plurals, I replied. Anyway, back to my beauty blog and today’s nitty gritty subject is: the Bra Bulge. As one of our ladies said in class today to her friend: I don’t mind seeing your bingo wings or side boobs, but I’m not looking at your back. It’s a shocker, isn’t it? I find that at least with a muffin top, you can pull your waistband up and your top down, but what the hell are you supposed to do with back fat? For a start, it’s a physical impossibility to even get your hands around there and you certainly don’t want to be drawing your husband’s attention to the fact that you feel there may be a problem, for the goddamn fear that he’ll try to offer a solution. We know full well what the bloody solution is: stop picking at the kids’ nuggets. Easier said than done: 5 o’clock tea time is just when lunch has well and truly worn off and adult dinner time seems a long way away. Pop another one in, can’t let those smiley faces go to waste (not that any of us would dare to admit to feeding our sprogs crap like that, but let’s face it, if it’s carrots and peas we’re picking on, then why the bloody back fat?!) The solution? Well, the ladies’ class offers one: lots of punching the pad is great for toning the arms and back, as well as all the other fat-busting exercises we throw in. Even if you don’t see immediate results, you can punch and kick the hell out of those pads and mentally you will care less about all these issues. Other advice I can offer for the back fat rolls: boycott all shops where the changing rooms harbour those dreadful three-way mirrors, (see blog: Three-Way Mirror). I have never felt the same way about myself again, having caught sight of my bum in a double mirror assault. It wasn’t just my bum. The veins piss me off too, because no matter how much of the kids’ pizza I don’t scoff, there’s bugger all I can do about them.

My solution to all these body issues? Well, we’ve all got ’em to varying degrees, so safety in numbers. Laugh a lot, exercise as life allows, don’t believe what you see in the mirror, because we know it lies anyway! Know that you are a bloody diva in all areas of life, with perhaps the odd exception (I always fuck up ParentMail and I’d rather drown in my own piss than help the girls with homework most of the time). And remember, you can always find a newspaper article that tells you that a glass of wine a day is good for your body and for your soul. Just keep keepin’ it real!

 

Flabberdabberdoooo!!! Two fat ladies: they ate and they ate…or is it 88…? It matters not, because the point is, it isn’t just plus size ladies who are cursed with the dreaded bingo wings. I can remember as a teenager, prodding and poking at my underarm flab and thinking, hell, this doesn’t bode well for the future. Then when I did my personal training course, I learned that a bent arm relaxes the tricep and thus, in order to get a true gauge of how bad things are getting underneath, one had to straighten the arm. Step 2: tricep dip and straight arm kickback like your life depends on it. Burn baby burn! And shit will you burn, because although there are three of the little buggers – the clue is in the name – the tricep muscles hurt like fuck after quite a short time. Five dips and you may well be calling time, while the lycra clad lady on your dvd will be happily telling you to pump out 20 at a pop, (at the same time as smiling and pretending you are enjoying yourself). There are probably wails of: mumeeeeee, coming from the room where you locked them, aherm I mean left them happily playing with their lego, which just adds to the stress of honing and toning. Working your triceps makes you very quickly want to lose the will and just put up with a little flab. Then the sun comes out again and you’re trying to shove your side boobs under your spaghetti straps and as you are in the process of doing that, you notice your bingo wings and the memory of the burn comes flooding back. So you turn to step 3: diet, as the solution. Of course you are fully aware that you can’t spot reduce fat. If you could, us personal trainers would be raking it in, with punters queuing up for our expert knowledge and advice. The truth is that the only thing we can say is: stop eating cake! and then we all just get depressed again, because cake makes us happy and tricep dips don’t.

So where the hell do we all go from here? Scrub ’em with a pan scritcher in a hot shower, otherwise known as: exfoliation. But who the hell has the time to exfoliate?! Exfoliation is something you do on a Spa day for your 50th birthday. Until then, you just look at those little red dots on your underarm and chuck a bit of moisturiser at them every now and again. I once told a beauty therapist that those little raised dots that had invaded my arms over the years were genetic. She looked at me with complete scorn and derision and said in no uncertain terms that it was a simple case of bad circulation. You see – this is why I have to tend to my own bush – these women are scary!

If all else has failed and in my case it has, the last resort is a tan: fake or real. Spray, rub, soak it up. A tan covers up a multitude of sins and unless you get it from a dodgy source, it won’t burn.

 

In a previous blog: Wattle happen Next? I discussed the fleshy part that can appear on both a turkey and a woman (and probably on Turkish women). It is the bit of you, that if left unchecked, can get rather unruly and swing like a pendulum when you laugh a lot. I don’t think that my blog offered a Zoella-like answer to this age related onslaught to beauty. However, I would happily commiserate with you, should you own a turtle neck, over a bottle of wine, which usually gives us all some perspective…actually, no it doesn’t. It just makes us care less. I could also lend you a scarf.

                     Zoella – checking to see whether she has the dreaded sideboobs

Yesterday’s blog tackled the issue of bunions and from your comments, I can now see that I am not the only person around with ugly feet. One of you mentioned the fact that with the better weather the flip flops can re-emerge. Hoorah! Except that mine did on Friday morning and by Friday afternoon I found one in Dog 2’s gob. Saturday morning my spare pair were dragged out from the back of the wardrobe. On Saturday evening I was reminded that Dog 2 chews flip flops.

                                                    Dog 2 mid flip flop chew

Today’s beauty blog (move over Zoella, love. I’ve got experience on my side) is going to talk about armpit fat, axillary breasts – underarm boobs for want of a better description. Normally hidden during the darker months, one can easily forget about them. Then, out comes the sun and bang! Just when you thought it was ok to get into a vest top to get a bit of a tan going on the shoulders, these two anti-beauties bulge out and ruin the view. Breasts can be pumped up and shaped into lascivious bundles of gorgeousness with the help of a good bra. But what can be done with these extra tits? Where can they be shoved? You can try and push them under your spaghetti straps all you like, but those bulging little buggers pop back out, every bloody time. In the end, all you can do is sigh and give yourself a bit more cleavage in the vain hope that it will act as a diversion.

             Quick – someone tell her to plump up her cleavage: distract! Distract!

So what little gem of hope can I offer you about these ugly fuckers? Firstly, make sure you have a well fitting bra. Secondly…no, I’m afraid there is no other solution but liposuction and the knife. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Save your shoulders from the perils of skin cancer and wear a t shirt. If you are resolute in your wearing of a vest: push and poke and prod with impunity.

Tomorrow’s beauty blog will tackle every woman’s’ favourite: bingo wings. What do you mean, Zoella blogs about nice things, like how to shape your eyebrows and the best way to apply blusher? Well, come on ladies, one of us has to be at the coal face of the havoc that oestrogen wreaks on our bodies. When you strip all that make up away, it’s what we’re left with that we need to face head on (no wonder we all drink too much bloody wine…)

                     Yay! You can’t see the extra pillows, wattle or bingo wings now!

 

I bought some boots a few weeks ago. I did that classic: I love these boots, they are half price, they feel tight, but I bloody love these boots and they will love me back by stretching to my needs. Next thing I know I’m asking partner to pay for them. It almost seemed too easy. I hadn’t gone looking for boots, but way back at Christmas my little sister had looked fabulous in a pair of suede ankle boots matched with jeans and as soon as I saw her, I had it on my radar that I needed a pair of boots in my armory,  just like hers. So here they were – it was meant to be.

For weeks they sat in their box, because what I had actually forgotten, is that I wear a dobok and track suits every day and I very rarely get the chance to wear little suede boots. After several weeks, I removed the lid of the box so that I could admire them on waking and before going to bed each night and lust after the evening that they would make their debut.

Well last Friday, that evening came. I threw off my workwear, donned a pair of skinny jeans and slid into my little suede boots. I paraded around the house, seeking approval from daughters and daughters’ friends. I even asked partner to show his love of the boots. I wanted people to be jealous of just how damned good they looked. (Apparently when we look into a mirror, our brain never allows us to see a true image of ourselves, which explains why we may quite happily leave the house looking a bit shit). However, tonight I felt confident that I didn’t look shit. I felt sure that these boots were hot and other people knew it.

We arrived at our destination: just one flight of stairs between me and a gin and tonic. Well I can tell you, it wasn’t the stairway to heaven – the warning bells began to ring out about the boots. It started as a slight pinch and by my second G&T, it had scaled up to a dull ache. Oh bollocks! I exclaimed to partner, as the reality of the ease with which I purchased my boots, came flooding to the fore: I’d forgotten about my bloody bunions! They run in the family, I should have remembered I had them. I can tell the weather by the my bunions, my little sister once told me: a dull ache means rain is on its way. By now my pain had progressed beyond a dull ache, so I knew that something worse than rain was about to hit. I shifted from foot to foot, the pain escalating in the same way as childbirth: from Braxton Hicks to fuck, get me the sodding gas and air right now, or I am going to die!! Partner was chatting away merrily to a friend. I was attempting the odd smile and nod, whilst inwardly I was thinking that if I didn’t remove the boots sharpish, something bad was going to happen. I finally got his attention and suggested we left the party. He looked a little confused, but the word, ‘bunion’ is such an ugly little devil – it makes one sound old and gnarled, so I muttered something about the dogs – they have replaced the kids as my excuse to leave somewhere. When I got to the car and released my bunions from those bunion busting boots, I felt like I had orgasmed…I sighed like I’d had the mother of all orgasms. The tension was finally released.

I entered the house bare footed and daughter 1 asked how the evening had gone and why I had taken off my boots. Well, I replied. You told me that you liked them earlier and that you would love a pair yourself, so you can have these bloody boots. She gave me a look: the look that says: earlier mum, I was lying to you because you were so pleased about your boots and I wanted you to feel good. Well next time, I thought to myself, next time a purchase seems that little bit too easy and spontaneous, I shall remember to engage my brain and hopefully, as long as I don’t look into a mirror, the truth will prevail.

The bunion busting boots (appearances can be deceiving)

I’m in the car, chomping on a cherry bakewell on the way to Harry’s funeral (remember I’m allowed the calories, because Harry died. At some point I will have to move on a little and stop eating like a pregnant horse). Partner had asked for snack requests for the 4 hour journey and this was my choice. A good one, I thought, until I saw that rather than buying Mr Kiplings, he had saved 10p and bought Tesco’s own. I had a moan. Harry’s died and you’re bothered about saving 10p on a packet of fake cherry bakewells, I sobbed…I didn’t sob, I moaned. He ignored me. I couldn’t let it go: just think of baked beans and tomato ketchup, I said, in a mournful voice, to try and elicit some sympathy. Peanut butter – I exclaimed, triumphantly! You would NEVER get own brand peanut butter. You – King of the fuss where peanut butter is concerned. You’ll happily pay an extra quid for Nature’s Earth, so why should I have to suffer own brand cherry bakewells…he’s pretending to just drive….especially when these are technically for Harry, I finish my rant. I bite into it, oozing with scepticism for the tart imposter. As my teeth sink through the bright, white icing, I realise that this is actually very good. Tesco have been more generous than Mr K and there is more than the usual amount of icing. The pastry is particularly short and crumbly, making it effortlessly melt into the mouth. Even the glacé cherry – that thing that nobody actually likes, because it tastes so sickly, sweet – even that seems bearable. I take another, just to check that the first wasn’t just an anomaly. It didn’t disappoint. Partner is glancing at me sideways, still saying nothing.

It’s a rare thing to find, a copy that’s actually better than the original, but, as we’re going to a funeral, did you know that Wet, Wet, Wet didn’t write: ‘Love is all Around’ that featured on the song track of Four Weddings and a Funeral? That was their 1994 cover of The Troggs’ 1960s hit and it spent 15 weeks at the top of the charts.

One of my oft used sayings is: fake it ’til you make it. Frequently we find ourselves in situations that are outside our comfort zone and where we feel more than slightly unsure. Shoulders back, deep breaths, everyone will think you’re the real deal! That fake cherry bakewell nailed it! It embodies one of life’s sweet lessons.

We have a blackbird in our garden that will not shut the fuck up! I feel bad mentioning it, because it’s nature and it’s natural and naturally I normally like nature, but it’s really getting on my fecking tits! I work some evenings, so when I have a night at home, it is like a treat. You know when someone says to you: go on – take tonight off and you think, yeah, I bloody well will and I’ll pour myself a glass of wine, because this feels like a treat and I’m going to bloody well milk it…and that’s exactly the time that the blackbird kicks in. It doesn’t even rev up – it just launches straight in with some sort of screech that makes it sound as if it’s being strangled. The first time it happened, I shouted upstairs to daughter 4, asking her what that bloody racquet was. She came down to investigate and that was when we discovered the bird. Since then, said bird has visited our fence like sodding clockwork. We’ve got 2 dogs and 2 cats for fecks sake – piss off to a garden that only has rabbits.

That blackbird got me thinking about Terry Nutkins and how, when he died, no-one seemed to bat an eyelid. Then, out of the blue this week, social media made out that he’d died again! Terry bloody Nutkins! If it wasn’t for him, I would have literally killed that bird. Everyone getting het up about Prince dying – another rock star who topped himself, probably so that he didn’t have to go through the humiliation of looking really shit in old age. Meanwhile, Terry Nutkins, who always looked shit,  died and then four years later, he died again – probably thinking about animals and screeching birds on both occasions.

Well Terry, every time that bird sits on my bloody fence, I’m going to raise a glass to you: you were the legend, Terry! Not many people die twice! Move over Prince, with a name like: Terry Nutkins, you were only ever destined for great things. With a name like: Prince, there is only one way to go.