...Think, Think, Think...

B'bye 2009

I didn't really enjoy 2009.  Yeah, there were some good things that happened but overall it was a bitch.

Shame really, as I started it so optimistically.  It was going to be MY year, I was going to have a great one.

I didn't.  At least it feels like I didn't.

In January:

• My best friend and his partner took me wine tasting for my birthday.  I learned the proper way to get pissed on wine.
• I saw a burlesque/circus act where a woman pulled a hankie from out of "there" as a magic trick and another deep-throated the leg of a bar stool.
• I had a terrible birthday itself (got locked out in the rain, had to cook my own dinner).
• I fell on an incy pavement and hacked my knee to shreds (still have the scar).

In February:

• Someone tested the water to see if I'd be up for a threesome.
• I was a mere micron away from flashing someone in the pool at the gym.
• I got promoted.

In March:

• I felt stuck in a rut (kind of a theme for the year).
• I asked everyone to tell me their favourite quotes (then put them in a word doc and didn't put them into a book like I meant to).
• I got a funny phonecall.

In April:

• It was suggested I swear too much. (Fuck, no!)
• Someone looked at my blog in search of mother/daughter relationship advice (wrong blog, sistah!).

In May:

• I started to get reeeeeaally unhappy at work.
• I had a brief existential crisis.
• When asked to name an intelligent person who didn't exercise, I came up with Prof. Stephen Hawking.
• I entered a pub quiz on a team called "quiz on my face" (and I'm still laughing).

In June:

• I thought I was out of the rut (wasn't.  so wasn't).
• I lost one of my best friends because I guess he had to make a life choice.  I'm just sad that a compromise couldn't be reached.

In July:

• I got the goose flu and spent 10 days sounding like Marge Simpson.
• My mother dramatically damaged Anglo-Norwegian relations.
• I got my own domain.
• I got a crush on Danny Dyer (oh, the shame).

In August:

• I did a quiz so you could all learn more about me.
• I got annoyed with the neighbours and their screaming kids.
• I apologised for whining so much.
• I identified some things that really piss me off.
• I got ID'd in Waitrose buying posh fruit cider and dinner.
• Not blogged, but this is when stuff started to get really bad at work.  Like crying before I left the house bad.

In September:

• I shared some brief insight to what breakfast is like when I'm unhappy (hint: not healthy).
• I saw Danny Dyer in a play (he was 6 feet from me, if that).
• I experienced the pain of calf massage.

In October:

• Someone found my blog upon searching for "Young Person with Bags Under Eyes" - nice ego boost.
• I got free trainers from www.fitnessfootwear.com.
• I went on an unsuccessful clothes shopping fit and had someone imply I was fat.
• Not blogged, but my maternal grandmother (who I had no relationship with) died.

In November:

• Not blogged, I went to the funeral of my maternal grandmother.  It reminded me how friends are the family we choose for ourselves and made me wonder if I'd see any of the people there again.  It was a very weird experience all around. There were only 3 of us in the crematorium not really grieving.  I felt like I was trespassing.
• Not blogged, by now work was pretty much destroying me and I'd started work on my CV.
• I was in a minor car accident for which I totally blamed myself.
• I met fellow bloggers and saw a play called Poles Apart, which was a wonderful experience.
• I revamped the beauty blog again.

In December:

• My role at work completely changed, meaning that I do virtually no direct customer service work, am not responsible for a team and work directly for one person.  I couldn't be happier, its like starting afresh.  The extra nice thing about this was that the person I now work for specifically asked for me to be the one to help him and its all going really well.
• I struggled to find the enthusiasm to put up Christmas decorations.  In fact I struggled with enthusiasm for Christmas altogether.
• I got some sort of lurgie which the Doc initially said was eczema and forbade me from having bubbles or hot baths/showers.  Turns out, after a second visit to another Doc its Pityriasis Rosea which will eventually go by itself.  This means that I can't treat it and have returned to the world of hot bubbly baths and long, hot showers.
• I wished all of my wonderful readers a Merry Christmas.

So, a long recap there (check out the archives for the original posts).  It felt like such a long, stressful year and I was constantly run down and ill.  It seems that stress will do that to you.  

2010 will be different.  I'm not sure how, but it will.  Today I'll be tidying all my shit so that I'm starting the new year I'll at least be able to find things.

I hope you all have a fantastic time tonight, whatever you may do.

I'll see you on the other side!

Bx

Merry Christmas!

This will probably be my last post before Christmas as blogging has taken a bit of a back seat for me lately.

For those of you who are interested (which I doubt is many) - I'm at a point where I think the nastiness that has kept me away from bubbles is not eczema but pityriasis rosea.  In spite of doing what the doc told me, the lurgie has spread all over my torso and I'm now a mass of little pink blotches.  The interweb says its a common misdiagnosis, but I'm aiming to get back to the docs this week to make sure.  I've actually had PR before, so I know what to expect.  6-12 weeks of blotch that can't be treated, then normal again.

I am extremely pleased that Rage Against The Machine are the christmas number one.  I have a real loathing for the X-Factor nonsense and it was nice to have a bit of a rockier option.  So pleased was I, that I actually paid for a download of the RATM single in spite of the fact that the entire album sits on my cd rack.  I might be a little biased because I think Zack De La Rocha is the 2nd coolest person to be born on 12th January.  Coolest being me, of course.

Things are looking up at work.  I've had a major change of role to doing something I'm enjoying a lot more and I'm not dreading going into the office which is a huge improvement.

I am not liking the snow one little bit.  I don't drive, so even the shortest journey is a slip/fall/cut/sprain risk and as someone with virtually no balance or spatial awareness the chances of me falling are quite high.

So...that'll be it this side of Christmas but I'm going to try to get a 2009 recap done before we hit 2010. I hope you all have a wonderful time with your loved ones and that you eat, drink and are as merry as you can possibly be.

Lots of love...

No Bubbles

The two most awful words to the ears of a beauty junkie.  No bubbles.

They screech, cutting you to your very core.  The horror.  THE HORROR.

A couple of weeks back, I noticed a little red round patch on my arm.  Nothing major, not itchy or weeping or anything grim.  Just a little red patch.

Then a couple of days later another one.  A bit further up on that arm.  At intervals, cue repeats on my thigh, my chest, back, calf, hip.  Some of them are a bit itchy.  Blech.

Last week I decided I'd best make myself a doctors appointment as it was definitely getting worse.  Earliest the one who specialises in the skin stuff could see me was today, at the surgery in the "group" that is the furthest from my house.  1.9 miles walking, according to Google Maps.

All weekend, I scoured the internet trying to self-diagnose, which we all know is a fools game.  Eventually I came to what I felt was the only logical conclusion.  It was Ringworm and it was obviously the cat's fault.  She hates me anyway, so why not infect me with hideous fungus?  Smug little sod.*

Turns out, I am not fungal.  Its eczema.  This brings both good and bad news.

Good news - I am not fungal.  Always nice to know.

Bad news - No bubbles.

By that, I mean that the doctor has advised that I use no perfumed products or bath/shower doo-dahs that lather until this is all sorted.

Its likely to be caused by a cold weather/central heating combo, mixed with my love for baths so hot you could cook food in them and a good dose of stress thrown in for seasoning. 

I've now got all sorts of new but boringly packaged, un-sexy smelling products to use.  E45.  Doublebase Gel.  Some sort of steroid cream just in case the itching gets unbearable.  And no more scalding hot baths.  I'm allowed short, warm showers.  Lucky me.  Just what you crave after a long day at work "Oooh yes, I'll have a quick splash in some lukewarm water for 30 seconds".  Great.

I'm torn between my love for soaking in a hot bubbly tub and my vanity i.e. knowing that to not look like a plague victim I have to take the advice.  Okay, I exaggerate.  I don't look like a plague victim.  children are not singing Ring a Ring o' Roses at me as I walk down the street** but I feel SO unattractive. 

I'll try to be good.  I switched from a daily shower/bath routine to a shower only routinue before when I had my tattoo done.  Although that was in late summer/early autumn so I felt less of a need to surround myself with a warm cocoon. 

As a plus point for friends and colleagues, I'll be going through my huge box of bath and shower goodies and handing out some castoffs.  I may alternatively open a branch of Boots.  I do believe I have enough stock to last until sometime in mid-February.

What I find most interesting slightly appalling is that the stress of one thing or another at work has had me feeling run down for ages.  It is only now that I'm showing physical/cosmetic signs of stress that my vanity kicks in and goes "Oi! You'd best do somethng about this.  You're starting to look a bit rough".  Am I really so shallow that my appearance is a stronger motivator than my health?

I'm not going to answer that.  You can draw your own conclusions.  The only hint I'll give you is that I will be redirecting my bath/body product fund into expanding my makeup collection.

* I apologised today.  I picked her up and hugged her and she looked more unimpressed at that than at the accusation.

** Did you spot the deliberate mistake here?  I know, I know.  Its nothing to do with the plague.  All a myth.  I was just testing.

Poles Apart

Last weekend, I went to see an awesome play called Poles Apart. I realise that approximately 1/3rd of my readership already know this because they were either watching the play with me, or they were in it.

I don't often meet other bloggers.  In fact there isn't anyone in my real life that even writes a blog themselves, although one friend is thinking about it.  He'd be a great blogger, he's the coolest person I know by a long shot.

A month or so ago Ellie from The Daily Smoke suggested that we meet up to see fellow blogger Daniel Hoffman-Gill in his play, Poles Apart.  I had what can only be described as a complete fucking whore of a month with one thing or another, but I did manage to get myself together and get a ticket booked.

On the day of the show, I texted Ellie in the morning and she said that she'd be meeting Rashbre, another blogger in the Commercial Tavern at 5:30pm with a view to getting something to eat before the show.  Rashbre is a blogger who I was aware of but I'd never really read his blog (he's in my google reader now but as I'm about a week behind I still haven't really read his blog!  But I will!). 

Its an interesting thing, meeting people off the internet.  Especially when those people blog anonymously.  You never really know what to expect.  You have an idea of their character but no idea what they look like or sound like.

I decided (in my total lack of wisdom) that I'd meet them via Oxford Street so that I could do a bit of Christmas shopping.  EPIC fail there.  You're shuffling along, stuck behind tourists who seem fascinated at the window displays and don't stop to think for a second that there are people with things to do and places to be.  I managed Debenhams, Selfridges and Ann Summers before I gave up.  Oddly enough, Ann Summers was the only shop wtih any breathing room.  I guess crotchless knickers don't feature on that many people's christmas lists.

I moved at a snail's pace back towards Bond Street Tube station and headed in the direction of Liverpool Street.  On my journey I tried to work out what everyone would look like.   Not easy.

It turned out that in the time it took me to get from Bond St to Liverpool St the heavens had opened and it was absolutely pouring down.  This meant that I had to juggle an umbrella, two bags of shopping (paper  carrier bags...which are of course, not waterproof) and Google Maps on the iPhone to try and work out where on earth the pub was.  For 20 minutes I wandered around, noting that the city looks a lot different at night than during the day. It was also slightly weird not following my boss - thats what I usually do in the city.  He knows where we're going and so I totter behind him (client meetings = silly shoes). Eventually, I gave up and got a cab.  

The pub itself seemed quite unusual.  From the outside, I wasn't really sure a - if it was open and b - how exactly to get in as none of the doors looked like a "main" door.  I worked it out and wandered through the extremely dim lighting towards my party - Ellie, Rashbre, Melanie and John.

We left the pub straight away and went to Brick Lane for some eats and Rashbre very kindly filled me in as to some of the local history as I'd never really been to East London before. After being accosted by the locals, we settled on what was pretty much the first indian restaurant we came to.  We were promised freebies that I'm sure we didn't get, but you could make an absolute killing if you were vigilant about getting what they offered!

We had a fairly quick meal as we were cutting it slightly fine to get to the theatre on time, but we still had time to chat and sort of scope eachother out.  I had no idea what Rashbre would be like but he was extremely warm and friendly.  He gave me a copy of his book which I've made a start on but I'm a notoriously slow reader so it may take me a while!  Melanie and John were very sweet but I didn't get much of a chance to get to know them (John's blog is also now in the reader to be caught up on!).  Ellie is what can only be described as effortlessly beautiful.  She was shorter than I'd imagined, but she's one of those people that glows.

Cobra..or maybe Tiger beers and a curry later, we're on our way to the theatre.  I was glad that everyone else knew where we were going because I had absolutely no idea.  Set me down in the West End and I'm fine, I can get wherever I need to go.  Anywhere else in London?  No.  I don't worry about getting lost so much, because I know that if you walk in a straight line for long enough you'll find a tube station, but when I've got to be somewhere I like to know exactly where I'm going.

Rich Mix on Bethnal Green Road is quite a nice venue.  Poles Apart was playing up on the 4th floor and it was a lovely space.  Probably only seats for 100 and so you're right on top of the action.  As I've mentioned before, I love that.

The play was, in my opinion, brilliant.  I spend far too many evenings at home and the utter crap on TV slightly astonishes me when I'm reminded that there are intelligent, funny, talenter writers and performers out there who don't get the recognition they should.

As well as being very funny - laugh out loud funny, in fact - the story had a point.  These two men, instead of blindly going with the masses who rant "these bloody foreigners, coming over here, stealing our women and our jobs, they have it easy" decided that they would find out for themselves what it is really like to be an immigrant, not speaking the language, not knowing anyone. Off they went to Poland, with a comically translated letter, in search of employment.  Turns out, its not that easy.

I learned so many interesting things during the show - I had no idea how badly the Polish were affected during the war.  Of course I knew they were invaded at the beginning of WW2 (the fact was reinforced by the Fawlty Towers episode "The Germans") but I had no idea how hard they fought and how much they lost.  Its utterly tragic.

There were also some hilarious send ups of Nick Griffin - the man is a joke after all, so why not take advantage of that.

Reading his blog recently, DHG said that the show we saw may have been the last time that Poles Apart is performed, which hits me with both a sense of joy that I got to see it before the run ended but also with sadness that so many people will have missed out on such an entertaining, informative and downright funny show.

Thank you Ellie, Rashbre, Melanie and John for a lovely evening and great conversation, and thank you Daniel for a great performance and a wonderful, thought-provoking show.

To Do Today... / Christmas Decoration Trauma

Full list of actions to be taken to secure my status as Domestic Goddess/functioning member of society (for today at least).  In no particular order:

• Review of Poles Apart and lovely meeting with fellow bloggers
• Tidy House
• Bake - mint chocolate shortbread and homemeade mince pies
• Put up Christmas decorations
• Write Christmas cards
• Make shopping list for presents I still need to buy
• Assignment x 2 for courses I have ignored for almost 8 months
• Small amount of form filling for work, even though I'm meant to be on holiday

So far I have done none of these things.

I went out and bought a Christmas tree, lights and decorations.  The first lot of fairy lights did not work.  I find this out after I've wound all 100 of them around the tree.

I take these back for replacements.  I get home, feeling all clever in thinking I'll plug them in while I'm putting them on the tree so I know that they work. 

They do work.  For about 10 minutes.  Then... nothing.  Not even one little fairy light.  Unplug, replug, check for loose bulbs.  Darkness.

I can't put any more decorations onto the tree until I know whats happening with the lights.  Problem is I've now reached "christmas decoration apathy" and it can all just sod off. 

I realise this is probably my own fault.  These are Poundstretcher lights and you know what they say - buy cheap, buy often. But, I have another set of 50 from there that works fine, I just can't seem to make 50 go around the whole tree.

I will get to all the other stuff, but I now just can't be arsed.  Christmas is just so draining.

Too Slow

I was in a car accident on Saturday.  A minor one.  No one was hurt.

The shock hit yesterday evening.  Slow-motion replay over and over.

The car in front at the round about pulled away and then changed her mind.

Too late by then.

It was my fault we were out.   I wanted to go and look at stationery.  I don't need any stationery.  I just wanted.  Like I always do.  Curse of the only child.

I can see that she's stopped moving.  I say, "that car isn't moving" but I'm not quick enough.

Why didn't I just say "STOP"?  The verbosity present in every area of my life now spiders in to emergency situations, encouraging them rather than working to prevent them.

At work its quite amusing.  They call me Scrabble.  People have called into the office while out on the road to check they used the right word or spelling.

Yet I couldn't find one simple little "Stop".

No one was badly hurt.  Just twinges.  There are two damaged bumpers and an insurance excess to be paid, which is painful enough.

And its all my fault.  For being brattish and wordy.

How to look good...dressed

I have the opposite problem to the women on How To Look Good Naked.  I'd probably be Gok's worst nightmare.

I don't hate my body.  I'm not mortified at my own reflection or terrified by the sight of my own naked flesh.  The chances of me insisting that a partner turn the lights out before I strip off is practically zero.

Naked I'm fine with.  Lingerie?  Love it. Clothed though?  I'm not so good.

I went out this afternoon to have a look for some new work clothes.  I'm starting to feel that everything I have in my work wardrobe makes me look frumpy and much older than I really am.  What I'd like is to look stylish and pulled together when I'm at the office, not like I got dressed in the dark from a wardrobe belonging to a 50 year old RE Teacher.

I wandered around a few shops and found some lovely things.  None of them fit.  I found this little lovely, but they didn't have my size.  The size below was too tight and I'm sure the next size up would have just hung off me.  I may order my size off the website and see if its any better. 

I loathe shopping for clothes for this reason.  Either they don't have my size, or the sizing systems are so inconsistent that I end up hacked off by the faff of guessing if things will come up too big/too small and just give up.  I'm pleased to say that I don't usually come away from these ordeals feeling fat.  Generally I blame the shops for being incapable of picking a sizing system and everyone using the same one.  Today though, I do feel a bit rubbish.  Frumpy really.

People often ask me why my obsession lies with makeup and beauty.  Simple answer:  it ALWAYS fits.  Once you know your foundation shade, everything else is a breeze.    I don't ever try 5 different shades of lipstick to find that none of them are right and then leave 20 minutes later hot and flustered from being trapped in a cramped changing room.  Its not that kind of party. 

After putting myself through the ringer I gave up with the clothes shopping and made my way empty handed to Superdrug where I bought new shampoo, conditioner, a couple of styling products and a new mascara as a reward for not having a massive hissy fit about it all.

I was actually starting to feel a bit brighter until I went into McDonalds.  I ordered (large quarter pounder with cheese meal, with a chocolate milkshake) and the cashier went to put everything together.  While he's doing that, another guy comes over, looks at the till from which I've just been served and says, with eyebrows raised "large meal...". 

I understand its best not to be rude to people in the food service industry (for reasons best explained by the movie Waiting), so I just replied, "Yep".  In reality, I could have quite happily thrown my chocolate milkshake in his face, the twat.  I took my food and scurried home, seething more about that than about the lack of clothes-purchasing that I managed to do.

So, other than getting an extra hour in bed this morning today has not been one of my funnest days ever.  Not to worry though, I'm about to go and finish my milkshake and do my hair.  Naked probably. I think I look better that way.

Not Helping...

As you've probably seen before, I sometimes check my stats and referrers to see how people found my blog.

I was looking today as I had a comment on my previous post and I was curious how they found me.

In the list of referrers, there were two image searches.  Onewhich lead to an image of Ryan Reynolds chained to the floor, which I remember, but don't really remember putting into a post and one which lead to this picture...

 

...which was from this post.

The search term was "young person with bags under eyes".

I know I mentioned that I had bags under my eyes, but I didn't quite expect to be picture number 3 in the search results.  

Fuck you google images, you are not helping me right now.

Remember the goose flu?  Well, its back.  I had tonsillitis a few weeks back and although the swollen tonsils have gone down and their pus coating has vanished, I haven't been 100% since. 

On Friday of last week I noticed that my throat was getting worse.  It was a bit iffy over the weekend, but I tried not to whinge at my friends and even went out and did the first session of the Get Running program on my iPhone which may actually have exacerbated the whole situation.

Unfortunately today my throat is really bad and within about an hour of me getting to work, my voice returned to that oh-so-sexy goose/marge simpson combo.  By 2pm, I'm home and in bed half sulking and half crying because I seem to have been ill constantly this year and I'm just so tired of it.

Here's hoping I feel and sound better in the morning!

Fifteen out of Ten

I'm not much of a one for exercise.

By that, I mean that I don't do any.  I walk to work, but thats the sum total of it. 

The thing I never seem to learn is that by doing nothing all to take care of my aging muscles, I'm actually doing myself more harm than good.

Case in point: My hamstrings and calf muscles.  They hurt.  All. The. Time.  A lack of stretching combined with daily wear of 4 inch heels around the office have equalled short, tight muscles. Its been going on for some time and I tried my best to ignore it.  I dabbled with a few stretching exercises that I'd do for a couple of days and then stop.  Big mistake.  Huge, in fact.

Recently,it got so bad that I had no choice but to seek professional help and on the recommendation of a colleague, went to see his sports masseuse.

When you hear the word "massage" you think to yourself "ahhhh, lovely, relaxing massage."

If you put the word "sports" in front of "massage" you find yourself presented with an entirely different response.  Along the lines of "FUCK!  OW!  STOP IT!"

I can't explain to you how painful it is to have tight calf muscles massaged.  It's truly one of the most horrific physical experiences I've had. The masseuse herself is lovely and by all accounts very good at what she does.  If by very good at what she does, people mean "adequately skilled to introduce you to intense muscular pain".

There are two acts of evil that are part of the treatment that I feel compelled to mention.  The first is known as the lock and key and involves the masseuse bending your leg so your foot is up in the air and then jamming her knuckles into the bottom of your hamstrings, just above the knee.  In a flexible person the foot should then drop down, indicating that the muscles and tendons are loose.  In an inflexible person (i.e. me) it hurts immensely.  The kind of pain that pushes you to hysterical laughter because you can't even cry, it hurts so much.

The second act of evil is when the masseuse rubs over your calf muscles, finds a knot and then presses on it.  She asks you how bad the pain is on a scale of one to ten and holds it there, letting the pain radiate through you until it eventually subsides.  The science behind it is that the pressure starves the knot of blood, then when the pressure is released blood rushes through and clears some of the toxins.

I've also been given a few stretches to do in conjunction with the massage.  One I like, the other two (which are painful) not so much.

So whats the point of this rambling post, you ask?  Its a bit of a public service announcement really.

People, please....stretch.  Daily.  I urge you.  You don't want to have to have a sports massage.  You really, really don't.

Friday Night Shopping

Dear Waitrose,

I thought I'd write you a little note just to let you know that I do, in fact, adore shopping with you.  Of all the supermarkets you are my favourite for many reasons, the primary of which is the fact that as you slightly overprice your products the calibre of person in store is usually much better. 

Call me a snob if you will, but if I have been at work all day and want to get something nice for my dinner, I do not want to contend with screaming toddlers and their oblivious parents.  I want to wander, quietly browsing until I find something yummy.  I then would like to pay without much of a wait and make my way home.

This evening, all was well until I got to the checkout.  Here's what I bought:

• Computer Active Magazine x 1
• Look magazine x 1
• Ciabatta Rolls x 1 pack of 4
• Deli Style Charlotte Potato Salad x1
• Coleslaw x 1
• Birds Eye Simply Salmon in Lemon/Herb butter x1
• Nestle Mint Aero x 1
• Jacques Fruit Cider x1

The young lady serving me and my father (who is well over 60, I should add) was under 18 and so had to ask a grown up if she could serve me the cider.

So we waited.  She pushed her little buzzer and waited for the lady in the barbour-style green jacket (seemingly this indicates some sort of seniority) to come over.  We waited a bit more.  And a bit more.  Probably only three or four minutes in total, but that is too long really.

Eventually, barbour-jacket comes over, types a little code into the till and looks me up and down.

Now, I will admit, I do try to take good care of my face.  The rest of my body, not so much.  I don't like the gym but do very much like alcohol/cheeseburgers/vast quantities of pasta/chocolate etc.

The policy in the majority of shops is that if you look under 21, they will ask you for ID.

Barbour-jacket's eyesight is so bad that the face below apparently looks under 21:

 

Note the lack of makeup, the bags under eyes, the smile lines (aquired mostly through years cynical/derisive laughter).  This is the face of someone who works in an office and at the moment doesn't enjoy it much.  This is not the face of an underage drinker looking to get wrecked.

I ask you, Waitrose, do you think that underage drinkers go to your stores with their dad on a friday night and buy ciabatta and salmon to go with their posh fruit cider?  Really Waitrose?  Really?  We're hardly talking fish and chips and abottle of white lightning are we?

Many people may find it flattering.  For me, it does just seem ridiculous.  I may be a little hard on myself but I am quite sure that I do not look under 21.  At the moment I'm amazed that I pass for under 41.

I do understand that you have laws and rules to follow, however I can't help but think you may be better off having the people enforcing those rules able to read without the use of brail and navigate their way around the store without the assistance of a guide dog or a white stick. 

Otherwise, thank you for a lovely shopping experience.

Best Regards

Beth