Category: Stuff that just happens

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.

 

 

Turning the page of the newspaper today, I was rather tickled to see that the little girl in the BT advert was wearing a long sleeved t shirt that is stained with tomato sauce of some description. Very clever BT – you are making your advert so real.

My memories of my kids’ clothes from age 4 months to about 6 years, was the fecking stains. Let’s face it – their staple meals were: being weaned – carrot purée, daughter 1 organic carrots, daughter 2 bog standard carrots, daughters 3 and 4, HIPP baby jars of carrot purée. They then progressed to pasta. Aaaah pasta. Where would we be without pasta? But oh my the pasta sauce – what a bugger that was to get out at a 30 degree wash. We all know the adverts are bollocks: Persil, whiter than white? What a crock of shit. More like Persil at 30 degrees: ingrain the stain. I ingrained so many stains over the years, but still those clothes were handed down. Down they went: from daughter 1 to daughter 2, via daughter 3 to daughter 4 at which point I had reached denial about the stains and would offer the rejects to my sisters’ children. How often have you held up an item of clothing to the light, examining the stain and thought, sod it, it’s not that bad – that’ll do another rugrat.

Bibs took a lashing. I had those ones that each had a day of the week on them. Monday-Friday always lasted the longest, with Saturday and Sunday getting covered in the most crap. I would suggest that dad did more of the feeding at the weekend and took less care – but this could be untrue. It could be that during the week I fed the babies more natural products and by the weekend I had lost the will. Chicken nuggets anyone? Makes a change from carrot. Tomato ketchup on toweling is a challenge.

It has to be said that even now, really bad stains get sent to Granny to magically disappear. How does she do it? I guess it’s a skill of the over 70’s, because I can scrub the shit out of a tomato stain with every potion in the Betterware catalogue, but only Granny B seems to be able to get it out.

I’m not going to lie – the most stains I have to deal with these days are red wine. Red wine circles on the sofa, red wine circles on the coffee table, shed loads of red wine spilled on the cream shag pile rug on loan from my sister and have you ever tried to get a red wine stain off a long haired, white dog?

So I applaud you BT, for embracing and not shaming the stain. Stained clothes are an integral part of growing up and nothing to be ashamed of. The wine stains, however, are shameful.

Put your tits away! I’m confronted with yet another tit selfie on Instagram. I know I’m the wrong side of forty and my tits are probably heading South, but I promise you I’m not jealous. Prolific use of a sports bra over the years has stood me in pretty good stead. In fact, as well as ‘boys only want one thing’ (their X Box) and ‘don’t ever squeeze a spot on your forehead’ (it only makes them last a lot, lot longer), I think that ‘wear a good sports bra’ is the best bit of parental advice I have given my girls. As, ‘Active Wear’ is de rigeur, there is currently no shortage of fabulous bras. I can’t get into one at the moment, as my shoulder won’t allow that sort of effort – let’s face it – we’ve all needed rescuing from a sports bra. I would frequently get half way into or out of mine and apart from it giving me a cleavage to die for (quick, grab the selfie stick!), I would actually be stuck and need the back tugging down.

No need for any of that malarkey at the moment, as I have been confined to the sofa under strict orders to relax. I whizzed the Dyson around the kitchen yesterday morning one handed and blacked out. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that glass of wine after the anesthetic? One day on the sofa and I feel like a moose. That, combined with not shitting properly (lactulose just makes you fart). So I’m sitting reading the papers and I see that the thigh gap is out and muscle is in. This pleases me greatly for two reasons 1) I have never owned a thigh gap and only recently discovered what it meant and 2) I love weights, I encourage women to use weights, weights are the answer to so many problems (they can even be used as door stops).

So, in my moose-like flatulent state, the thought of getting my hands onto my weights again fills me with excitement. One of the best things about weights is that they celebrate the curve. They don’t try to make you something that you are not, like starving yourself does. They embrace you and everything you stand for. They make you stronger inside and out. They don’t give a shit about a tummy overlapping the top of the lycra, because they know that you are still healthy and strong, whereas the woman who is denying herself food is weak and undernourished. Go grab some weights, ladies! Don’t sell yourself short either. You can handle the big ‘uns. Don’t feel you have to pump those plastic coated pink 3lb’ers up and down a hundred times, thinking about how many loads of washing you could have had done in the time that took. Big it up! You won’t bulk up because we just aint made that way. Take advice so that you know what to do – this is one thing you can’t wing – and I promise you – you will never look back!

I have noticed a fact about life, that when you are feeling your most shitty and vulnerable, everyone around you appears gorgeous and in control. When you are about to be operated on, this is a good thing. Ana breezes into my room, Spanish, bubbly and lovely. She asks me to pee in one of those pots you get chutney in with your take away curry – to make sure you’re not pregnant, she said with a smile. I fell about laughing and told her I have enough already. How many have you got? She asked. Oh yes, that is enough, she replied when I told her.
Next the anaesthetist shimmyed in: suave and swarthy in a white open shirt and smart trousers. He went through my form. 3 glasses of wine a week, he commented, liar! I tried to explain that I’d written 3 glasses 3 times a week, but he remained sceptical. I decided to stop explaining, as it was a lie anyway. He proceeded to tell me in great detail what he was about to do to me with his blunt instrument- it was him who emphasised this, not me. In case I hit a nerve, he said and there’s a 1 in 10,000 chance you’ll die. Any questions? It seemed unimportant after his final statement but I asked if I could have a glass of wine that evening. One of your three, he laughed and with a wry smile on his face, he shimmyed out.
In came the physio, petite and pretty. Can this hospital possibly parade someone in front of me who looks as crap as I do (by now I was wearing the sexy, white support stockings and feeling like shit). She told me that I would need lots of drugs after the op: the pain will hit you when you wake up tomorrow morning, bang!
The surgeon was next in to see me. At least he was in his gowns, so looking as fashionable as I was. It’s the left shoulder, isn’t it? he said. I presumed that it was a rhetorical question, as I’m (mum’s) paying £5000 for the privilege, but he looked at me wanting reassurance. I confirmed it was and while he was scribbling all over my arm, where I felt a small X marks the spot would have sufficed, I asked if he did bogofs, as both shoulders need repairing. He laughed and breezed out, still brandishing his marker pen. I was left imagining the pen transforming into a scalpel and looked down at his scribble, hoping they weren’t the lines he was going to follow.
Next thing I know, my bed is on the move. My driver asked if I had kids. Can’t be bad, he said. They go to school this morning and mum’s taking class A drugs! The suave anaesthetist was there to meet me – looking less metrosexual in his overalls. As he put me to sleep, he was telling his colleagues about my wine consumption: three glasses, he was chuckling to them and with that, I was gone.
I awoke to an male Irish accent- wow – you really do get what you pay for here, I thought. I was shaking uncontrollably, so he warmed me right up…by placing a lilo over me and blowing hot air trough a a large tube under the covers. It worked.
Back in my room I had what tasted like the best cuppa ever and a packet of biscuits was staring at me, so I attacked the packaging with my teeth. In fact, my only complaint about my private hospital experience, was that they hadn’t thought to open the biscuits for me.
I thought it would be churlish to write this in the feedback questionnaire. So I just put that everyone was wonderful and beautiful and kind and wondered what experience the right shoulder will have on the NHS…if the waiting list ever moves.