You can’t make it up

I hate men (and feminists) who think that women wear make-up to a) attract men and b) get one over on other women.

Do they not consider that we also wear make-up (as I do) to avoid a grimacing double-take when we wash our hands in the loo?

In a nutshell…

Leaving a blog for so long is rather like towards the end of a long-term relationship. You care very much for the blog. You want to keep going just for the sake of it, knowing that if you simply go thru the motions maybe the magic will return. But the more you look at the blank pages, the less likely you want to address the issue in case you come to the conclusion that actually it’s the end.

I’ve been clicking to The Diary and BMTV for the last few months and each time, I’ve had the simultaneous feeling of shame that it’s been so long since I tweaked its posts, frustration that I was unable to physically upload anything and the sadness of my mild disinterest or lack of major concern.

But no longer. The diary will always be something that’s as and when. But BMTV is back proper and while I might struggle at first to find a rhythm both in syntax and actual logical postings (I’ll have access to the net at home in the evenings, but this is when Tupper usually does his music, plus I’m more likely to want to write in the day time) but hopefully I’ll find my groove and we can endure many years of happiness together again.

This was my three-year blip. Three years. So much has happened in that time. Hey, so much has happened in the five months since I last wrote!

> Tupper has moved in. Yes, I know I said I’d never co-habit again; that I didn’t believe in love and that I was going to stay single, like, forever. But a lady is entitled to change her mind. At the moment the flat resembles one of those awful plastic tile games where you have to move the tiles around a grid to make a picture. To get from the sofa to the kitchen involves moving at least three boxes and jumping into a gap, replacing your last gap with said box. It’s… interesting.

> I still haven’t lost the half stone I put on at xmas. So I’m officially half a stone overweight. That’s OK. I’m still a ten on top and a 12 on the bottom. My arse will always be big. I know what to do to get back to my glory days. I just have to do it. And ignore the pizza and the cheesecake and all the goodies that come with being happy and living with a lovely man who likes lovely food and doesn’t mind my wobbly bits. But I must be strict! I don’t like my wobbly bits!

> I won the raffle at the work xmas do. The prize was enough money to be able to afford to take Tupper and me to America this ‘fall’. We’re doing Boston, New York and then up to Toronto and Montreal. I can’t wait. I’ve never been out of Europe before. Not too thrilled of the prospect of flying though. And not just flying. The seven-hour flight. Anyone who has ever been on a plane with me will either not know me anymore (that would be the ex who broke my heart by dumping me after a flight to Tenerife on Sept 13th 2001) or be family members who can’t avoid me. I’m not a good flier. I usually whimper a bit, moan a lot and cry throughout the whole thing (cue sex joke here). That’s if I’m not gripping my neighbour’s arm until I’ve made enough of an indent with my fingers to use them as little holders for things. Tupper has very thoughtfully bought me a hypnotherapy CD, although I’m not so sure how it would work now after having had hypnotherapy for flying (and it not working that well). But we’ll see.

I’ve tried Valium, alcohol, cards, films, books… Nothing has worked. Any tips? Oh, and if anyone can recommend an UBER CHEAP hotel in NYC, that’d be appreciated.

> I had the best birthday ever! I ended up having about three or four celebrations in total (ranging from piss ups to quiet suppers) owing to all my mates being dispersed throughout the country. That was quite good. It made me feel a) very popular and b) like a diva (and not in a bad way if I’m totally honest). At the main event I looked down the table at about 15 of my mates and thought “That’s a good number of people to have at a party.” Then I turned the other way and saw another ten or so. It was honestly the most I’ve had at a birthday shindig ever. Like really. Ever. When your birthday is so close to Xmas you get used to having four around a table. Including you. And your boyfriend. It was just lovely to see so many of my friends together all celebrating the Wonder of Me and I was extremely touched. So deffo going to have a January birthday again next year. Hell, maybe I’ll even have one in July too.

> I got involved with Age Concern. Selfishly though – I’m not a do-gooder hippy. After the death of my beloved Grandma in July last year, I missed having that influence in my life and thought I’d get involved and nab some surrogate grannies in the process. It’s just one Sunday a month at the moment – I go and hang out with them, and serve them a roast. It’s so much fun and they give me a lot of pleasure. I’ve asked AC if I can run a lighter lunch group one Sunday a month (taking their Sunday lunches to two a month, then) and they’re hopefully going to set it up. So fingers crossed; watch this space, etc.

So I think we’re all caught up now. See you in another five months, no doubt!

BMx

Fat girl slim

I think it’s fair to say that I have more than a slight penchant for shopping. More than a keen interest in fashion. OK, I feckin LOVE clothes, alright? And I love shopping even more now I’ve lost weight and am, what the high street would call, a ‘normal size’ (funny how they get most of my size in to sell, when actually the average size of a UK woman is a size 14-16, but hey). Most things will fit me and (when I’m not having a pot-bellied-pig day) most shapes will flatter me.

But recently, my shopping experiences (and there haven’t been many) have turned on their head. Not only are the clothes now picked from the other end of the rack, but my mood has done a u-turn as well. Before, when I was a size 14-16 I used to get incredibly frustrated (OK, seething with rage) when I heard little princesses in the other cubicle whinging about needing a size 8 but there wasn’t one, or that they loved these size 10 jeans but they’re just too baggy around the arse.

There was I, frantically wiggling, huffing and puffing as I desperately tried to squeeze my behind into a monstrous size 16 pair of bootcuts – their comments only served to make my ass feel like it was the size of the cubicle itself. Oh, isn’t life terrible that you can’t find a size 10 for your stupid bony limbs. I feel so fucking sorry for you that I’ll just ram this doughnut down my throat, yeah?

But – and I hate to be the worm that turned, and I really don’t want to sound like I’m bragging or that I’m one of those horrible little cows – now I’m seeing it from the other side. The other day I was trying on a skirt. I went for my usual, default size 12 (I always try a 12 first on the bottom because you can never tell with some shops – and I still have a meaty behind). I needed the 10. Fair dos. It happens sometimes. But that was too big.

This floored me. In the back of my head, I knew that your size in high street shops vary widely what with cuts, fabrics, etc. But I’ve *never* needed an 8 on the bottom before. Once I bought a size 8 jacket and some size 8 vests because I wanted them uber tight (slut!) but that was it. Poking my head out of the cubicle for the second time, I mumbled to the lady about getting me another size. “An 8?” she practically yelled. “Yeah sure!” I blushed, absorbing the collective seething that was going on in cubicles around me.

Likewise, in Topshop the other day, a size 10 shirt was too big around the back. I asked the assistant’s opinion on whether she thought it mattered (I didn’t want to buy the 8). She looked at me as if I was lucky that the 10 was kinda baggy. I felt like I was rubbing it in.

It was like when my mate got an A and two Bs at A Level and cried. I’d got crap grades and was mildly peeved that she was distraught over some excellent grades. I’d’ve killed for a B, let alone two of the blighters! But, as she explained, they weren’t her best. She could do better – it wasn’t *normal* for *her* to get one B let alone two. I realised this just before I retook my A Level English. I’d got a C and knew I could do better. I’d never got anything above  B before, and (because I finally had the right attitude and was concentrating on my own performance) I came away with one of the top marks in the country that year.

It’s the same with sizes. We should all stop comparing themselves to others, being snooty about those who are smaller or bigger. It doesn’t matter! It’s all about what’s ‘normal’ for *us*. The changing room is not a battle field; it should be a place of glittering wondrousness.

Dream a little dream

I don’t want to ruin my sunny mood today, but just wanted to register that I am absolutely hacked off with constantly dreaming about either my teeth falling out, or driving really badly.

Seriously, EVERY night this week I’ve either had a gummy mouth, or have battered my mum’s old Ford Fiesta. And if it’s not teeth or cars, I’m being chased Ninja-stylee by the ex. It’s not fecking on, I tells ya!

Right. Rant over. Sorry.

Happy, happy, joy, joy…

That is all.

Mmmmm, spag

This is really good news. I’m a massive fan of pasta in all its forms – bring on the carbs, mmmm – but warmed up, left-over pasta has to be one of the best meals on this not-so-green-anymore-actually earth.

Actually if we’re being finicky about it, it’s my mum’s warmed up, left-over pasta.

They say the way to a badger’s heart is through her stomach (I’m sure someone said it some time… Look, just leave off, OK? They *did*) so for those who’d like to give it a shot, other culinary delights topping my list are:

• Jacket potato (but the skin must be really crispy), don’t mind toppings, but it’s usually beans and cheese, tuna and cheese or if I’m being naughty, bolognaise and cheese.
• Left over pizza (cold, naturally and only Pizza Express or Dominoes will do).
• Anything with goats cheese.
• Fruit n Fibre cereal (I’ve been known to have got though a whole box in two days…) – in fact I’m kinda partial to most cereals, really.
• Mum’s lasagna (with crusty/burnt bits on the top).

And for desert:

• Apple/Rhubarb crumble (custard optional)
• Banoffee stuff
• Strawberry cheesecake
• Haaaaaagen Daaaaaaz (ideally Cookies and Cream, Pralines and Cream or Strawberry)

Gawd, I’m hungry…

Getting to know you…

Boring post stolen from the Wondrous Lady Woo. Feel free to ignore…

1. My uncle once: called my brother stupid. This is my brother who’s the only one in the family to have got a First by the way. What a cock.

2. Never in my life: been stuck for a “never in my life” thing, apart from now.

3. When I was five: I was engaged to Pierre at nursery.

4. High school was: drug fueled, paranoid and full of bullies.

5. I will never forget: what nasty people have done to me. Yes, I hold grudges. It’s one of my worst traits.

6. Once I met: Lady Diana. As regular readers will know.

7. There’s this girl I know: who bugs the crap out of me, but I don’t want to be rude by telling her to feck off…

8. Once, at a bar: I stole another girl’s boyfriend.

9. By noon, I’m usually: full of carrots, celery and curly wurlys.

10. Last night: I had a very nice time, thank you very much…

11. If only I had: enough money to get my hair cut and go shopping.

12. Next time I go to church: I’ll do the usual, “once you’ve seen one church, you’ve seen em all” and “It’s OK, Jesus will forgive us” comments.

13. What worries me most: the end.

14. When I turn my head left I see: my editor Rich, signs that say “A clean house is a sign of a wasted life” and “Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in heels” stuck on to the side of my pooter, pics of Dave Tennant, a wicked postcard of Flick Mites and a view of somewhere in Italy that I liked.

15. When I turn my head right I see: a colour printer with our teams’ phone numbers on them.

16. You know I’m lying when: I smile or giggle. I can’t lie, basically.

17. What I miss most about the Eighties is: Oh god, everything.

18. If I were a character in Shakespeare I’d be: Beatrice or Titania but I’m prolly more like Bottom.

19. By this time next year: I’ll either be a successful deputy editor or be unemployed and living back in Oxford with my mum.

20. A better name for me would be: the one I changed my name to by deed poll anyway.

21. I have a hard time understanding: most things.

22. If I ever go back to school, I’ll: not take so much shit from wankers, and work harder.

23. You know I like you if: I laugh at your jokes.

24. If I ever won an award, the first person I would thank would be: my fans.

25. Take my advice, never: become a journalist!

26. My ideal breakfast is: Fruit n Fibre with flavoured yoghurt, Crunchie Nut Cornflakes, Co Co Pops.

27. A song I love but do not have is: Kelley Rowland, Work

28. If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: look me up!

29. Why won’t people: understand?

30. If you spend a night at my house: you should know that I have quite a grotty looking bath and my toilet groans when flushed.

31. I’d stop my wedding for: nobody. Hopefully I’d be marrying the right person to begin with!

32. The world could do without: too many Z-listers to mention but currently Trinny and Susannah.

33. I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: admit past misdemeanors.

34. My favourite blonde(s) is/are: Blondie and Cameron Diaz.

35. Paper clips are more useful than: blue tack, but not more useful than staples.

36. If I do anything well it’s: self deprecation.

37. I can’t help but: bite off that little bit of skin that’s on the side of my nail. Owch!

38. I usually cry: over the X Factor and hate myself for it.

39. My advice to my child/nephew/niece: Don’t listen to advice from those who aren’t in a position to give it.

40. And by the way: if you’ve read all the way down to this bit you’re clearly very bored.

I know it’s wrong but…

…I lurve these t-shirts. Yes, I know they belong on some annoying fuck-wit Fresher, who’s attending the University of Arsehole, and I’m very much aware of how it’s blatantly some kind of late-twenties crisis I’m developing, but I do like a retro T and denim skirt/cardie ensemble at the moment, and these fit right into that.

I especially like the Dangermouse (fond memories of watching the show with my bro) and Batgirl T-shirts (although I do already have a Batgirl t-shirt, which rocks), so if anyone fancies digging (not very) deep into their pockets and donating to my wardrobe (especially as it’s a little sparse now I’ve gone down a peg or two (literally) then I’d be most grateful.

Naomi Rosenberg

So… Advance apologies for this self indulgent, self-pitying wallowing post but I need to get this out. No one reads this blog anyway, so sod it.

My grandma died yesterday. I’m empty. Just one big blank. At the moment I’m feeling like I need to be around people and not wallow, but then when I do, I feel bad that I’m out ‘having a good time’ but also bad that I’m somehow bringing the party vibe down with everyone seemingly tip-toeing around me… It’s a lovely mixture of guilts, I tell thee!

Of course, the usual sensible stuff is running thru my head. She was incredibly old (94), had an amazing life, was very well cared for, and during her last ten days she was in and out of consciousness and on a morphine drip. So while she wasn’t in any pain, that state of limbo can’t have been nice – for us as well as for her. For the last four years, she’s also been on her own and has missed my Grandpa dearly. I don’t think she ever got over her grief and being so frail made her terribly frustrated after being so active.

But then a big part of me feels so utterly shocked and I just want her back. It’s such a mighty blow. Every year for the last ten or years The Family have said “this will be her last Christmas” and I’ve always disagreed as she was so strong. Last week I was still holding out hope that she’d prove everyone wrong but we were already making funeral plans. It’s a Jewish thing.

In fact, went shopping a few months ago and bought this lovely black lace dress. I took it to the counter, and the girl mentioned how pretty it was. “Yes,” I said, “Plus it doubles up as a funeral dress.” She looked at me as if I’d killed a kitten. But being Jewish, (and also having old rellies) you have to be constantly ready for a funeral, as they have to be buried asap. Whenever I buy anything black I always see if I could wear it to a funeral. Maybe I’m just morbid, but I’m sure it’s the fast-burial, Jewish thing. I remember when my grandpa died, I had to go round the shops looking for a black suit. It was the most horrible experience and one I vowed not to repeat again. I promised myself I’d always have something ready just in case.

At the moment I’m doing my best to get my head down and not wallow. But then I think maybe that’s what’s expected. But then I don’t want to be annoying and no fun. A miserable me pisses even *me* off! I’m also trying my hardest to remember things about her and our time together…

I remember sitting on her bed at Rodean, the beautiful house where my brother and I would spend most of our school holidays (or so it felt), looking through her jewelery with her. Usually, before one of their glittering parties, I’d sit there, watching her putting on her make-up and think she was the most glamorous creature I’d ever seen. The wardrobes in her five-bedroom house are still stuffed to the brim with clothes, shoes, fur coats and stoles. So that’s where I get it from… We’d often sneak into the laundry room or pantry, where she’d find us and gently berate us with her sing-song voice: “Little fin-gers!”

She was the ultimate matriarch – a formidable woman whose bark was far worse than her bite! Originally from New York, she wouldn’t take any crap and would tell you with as little cushioning as possible. But she was also extremely warm, nurturing and kind, with a sharp sense of humour and an wonderfully naughty bitchy streak! She was always beautifully dressed, her hair and nails immaculate, her clothes co-ordinated with her stunning jewels. She loved ginger and couldn’t go into Lakeland without buying some gadget for the kitchen she didn’t need. My knowledge of her early years are hazy. I know she graduated with a degree in engineering, and during the war helped design the Whittle Jet. She was hugely artistic, and her sculptures are scattered around the home at Rodean.

One family tradition that still exists today is one that my brother and I started. On the way to Rodean, you drive up a hill, and the village below drops down, slowly out of view. As it does, it bears an uncanny resemblance to Toy Town, and so it would start with my brother and I, leaning up against the back seats, chanting “Toy Town, Toy Town!” as it disappeared from view. Then, as we rounded the corner to Rodean Crescent, my dad would beep the horn “beep biddy beep beep, beep beeeeeep” and that would signal our next chant: “Grandma, Grandpa!” We’d carry on chanting until they came to the front door, where a couple of big hugs and kisses and “haven’t you growns” would await.

When it came to go home, she’d always give my brother and me a bag of Hula Hoops (supermarket own brand) for the journey home whenever we left. We’d sit at the back of the car, stick them on our fingers like rings and nibble them off. My mum isn’t a fan of junk food and so holidays at Rodean were the only time my brother and I had food treats. Being Jewish, we weren’t allowed pork in the house. Of course, at Rodean, it was pork sausages and bacon for breakfast most mornings. The smell of bacon still reminds me of those days…