When I grow up, I want to be...Madonna

Well, actually, I don’t want to grow up at all. But seeing as there’s not much choice in the matter, I like to think that aiming to be Madonna is something of a goal…

To be honest, I’ve probably wanted to be Madonna since I was about 13. J and I used to spend many a happy hour getting dressed up in all our ‘BoyToy’ finery only to take vast amounts of photos of each other (or interrupt her older brother’s guitar playing to get him to take photos of us together…) or merely to walk the streets of our childhood homes thinking we were all cool and amazing. Obviously. The photographic evidence of such behaviour still exists, but I’m reliably informed that very few people have seen it…(Right J?)

Now I don’t particularly want to make rubbish movies, date men half my age, or wear shiny purple leotards (OMG no!) but Madonna still holds lots of appeal. The woman is something of a phenomenon. Love her or hate her, there is absolutely no denying her power as a businesswoman, her discipline in maintaining that body (she is 53 you know) and her skill in consistently and successfully reinventing herself. Personally, I love her. Her music may not be the best (it really isn’t is it?), but she still holds a certain draw for me. During a rather routine task in work the other day, I decided to watch her Superbowl performance on YouTube (gotta love the ‘Tube right?). And it was amazing. The woman is a machine! And it got me thinking… I have a few…we’ll call them ‘projects’ on the go at the moment which could use a touch of Madonna-style determination and drive on my part. So, I thought - whilst watching my heroine turn cartwheels with LMFAO - I reckon I should adopt a new mantra.  Taking inspiration from the evangelical youth of the USA (as you do), I’ve decided that the mantra of What Would Madonna Do? is as good as any for dealing with certain things in my life. I’d like to think I have an amount of intelligence in this brain of mine, but I seem to be somewhat lacking in a couple of areas; men (obviously) and losing weight. Intellectually, I know how to deal with both of them. It’s the translation of thought-into-action I appear to struggle with. I mean, would Madonna lie in bed until the last possible moment before getting up for work, running late, then taking the car because she’s late?? No she bloody would not! She actually probably sprint and get there in 2.43 minutes….but anyway…you know what I mean. (The fact that during the cold weather, I’ve been mostly driving to work is utterly shocking. LJ and I mapped the route on some clever online thing and it’s only half a mile away….I’m so ashamed…) Would Madonna fall off her ‘dry-January’ wagon because her brother tempted her everso slightly with a lovely cold glass of pinot grigio? Of course not! And to be honest, there are a few (in fact, it’s actually only about 2 or 3….I’m very lucky in this regard) people in my life and on the periphery of it (getting dangerously close!) who could do with a dose of the Madonnas. Would Madge allow herself to be taken for a ride?? Would she waste her time on no-hopers? I think not! She’d tell the useless a**holes to p1ss off…and never to come back. You get my drift….?

Anyway, this whole WWMD? thing seems to be having some effect. Chatting with Ka the other evening, she remarked that she hadn’t seen me this feisty in years. Excellent news! I’ve also resolved to make sure I get up 30 minutes earlier – so I can apply a proper face of slap (sheer laziness has meant that the barest slick of mascara has been applied….I have the tools to create a proper smoky eye. I just never do) and to walk the short distance to work. My brothers 10k running plan has been dusted off (I seem to remember foolishly agreeing to run some race in December along the beach at Weston-Super-Mare dressed as Santa…What was I thinking??), I have my healthy eating mojo back and I’m vowing not to suffer fools.

And this weekend, H and I have booked a rather splendid July mini-break in Dublin to see her Madge-esty (gold circle tickets don’t you know? That’s proper up-close-and-personal). Jolly good stuff.

 

So from now on, expect much feistiness, a lot of determination and drive and lots of fun from the more sorted MRMD. And if you dont like it (but I'm sure you will!)...tough! After all, WWMD??

(Oh…it’s not just me who has their eyes set on worldwide music stars as their ‘when I grow up…’ ideals. La told me the other evening that when he grows up, he wants to be Dave Grohl. So keep your eyes peeling in the North Bristol area for a young man beating out rhythms on…well…probably just about anything and acting in just about any rock-god like manner. It might just be him…)

Reminiscing

Things have moved on a bit in the life of MRMD. A fairly significant chapter in my life is about to formally come to an end and I’ve been pretty surprised about how I’ve felt about it. Those who know me well will have walked every step of the last two-and-a-bit years with me and will know that I’m more than ready to close the book.

People who know me well also know that I don’t really do ‘ago’. I find talking about and reliving the past generally spectacularly unhelpful. So I was a little surprised how I’ve felt thinking and talking about some of the events of the last few years. A colleague asked me the other day how I came to be working in my current role, bearing in mind that financially, I’m a lot worse off and all. I was more than a little surprised to find myself in tears half-way through my sorry tale. Clearly, ‘ago’ is still a little bit raw. However, do I want to go back to my ‘before’ life? Not really. Do I want the man who broke my heart back? Nope. Not at all. Am I surprised how much it can still hurt when I think too hard about it? Hell yes!

All this talk of the past has led me to be thinking rather a lot about Husband No 1. Chatting with LJ last night she asked: ‘Do you have regrets about him then?’ And I think I do. Not in the way that I want to track him down and see if anything’s still ‘there’. (I’m sure his current wife would have quite a lot to say about that!)  I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have thought about him at all if it weren’t for recent events. No, I have regrets in the way that I treated him. He accommodated my many foibles, my moods and generally tried to make me happy in every way he could… and I was just plain mean to him. (I wasn’t as nice back then you see…!)

However, this focussing on the past, it’s not going to get me anywhere is it? I can sit and hate on Husband No 2 or ponder over what might have been with Husband No 1 and on anyone between and since for that matter. But what does it achieve? It only makes me feel bad – all insecure and inadequate. So I think it’s probably a good idea to keep my eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. As one kindly ex-manager of mine once said to me (as I expressed my reservations about leaving a company after 20 years); ‘You shut the door for a reason Michelle. Why would you want to turn around and re-open it again?’

Why indeed?

Let’s move on…

The 'Great' Outdoors

So I’m not what you might call the ‘outdoorsy’ type. This amuses BJM no end. She’s from Yorkshire you see. Everything is outdoors up there isn’t it?

It’s not that I don’t do the outdoors. I do. I just like it clean, dry and preferably warm and sunny. I very much enjoy a walk in the country or by the coast. I just like it in the summertime and peppered with a lovely lunch and/or a cup of coffee/glass of wine or two.

In recent times, BJM has instigated something new in the Densley catalogue of activities……It’s called a Welly Walk. It basically involves everyone concerned getting wrapped up very warmly on wet, drizzly days and marching through the local countryside getting cow-sh*t and mud as far up our legs as is humanly possible and trying very, very hard not to fall over. You can imagine that my 8 year old son thinks this is amazing fun, but what took me by surprise was that both mine and BJM’s pre-teen daughters both enjoy it as much as the grubby boy. We’ve been on a few of these now. BJM is determined that I will get at least a fortnightly dose of proper country air. I leave the house typically ill-prepared usually. I own some wellies and a waterproof coat…but that’s about it. I don’t own a fleece (well, who does?!) and generally, I’m the queen of inappropriate footwear. My children are similarly inappropriately attired. (My daughter usually refuses to wear anything resembling a waterproof coat for fear of being captured and imprisoned by the fashion police. Heaven knows where she gets it from?!) BJM tends to fair marginally better. She owns ‘proper’ wellies and a ‘proper’ waterproof coat. (My boots cost £6 and have blue dots on them; BJM’s are Hunters). BJM has a fleece and layers her clothes appropriately to take account of the inclement weather. I just sport my Plain Lazy hoodie and hope that the physical exertion will keep me warm. Are you getting the picture…?

The walks, in fairness, are really quite good fun. We all get a much needed dose of fresh air, some proper physical exertion and we finish up in a warm pub. The last time we went on one of these Welly Walks, M and his two young daughters joined us. He’s also from Yorkshire, so clearly he’s made for such conditions. But he did manage to trump us. Me, I carry nothing with me; not even a tissue (very foolish considering the fact that muddy fields and 8 year old boys are a terrible combination). BJM usually carries pockets full of sweets (for bribery purposes). But M….M had a rucksack with drinks and everything in it. How professional! And how useful when the small people get fed up of wearing hats, gloves, scarves etc….just stuff them all into M’s rucksack. (Note to self: invite M on more outdoor expeditions involving small people)

It’s not just Welly Walks that are forcing me into the elements in the dead of winter. I’m also spending a rather large proportion of my weekends with the children stood on the side of a wind-swept football pitch watching my (really rather adorable) 8 year old boy play. I turned up to the last match (away) stupidly expecting to be able to drive right up to the side of the pitch. What the hell was I thinking?? And wearing?! I (completely ridiculously) decided that a hoody plus waterproof coat together with white (yes white) canvas Converse trainers would be ideal clothing for standing for 90 minutes on a muddy touchline. Oh. My. God. I have never been so cold in my entire life. On this particular occasion, braving the freezing conditions was well worth it. My lovely 8 year old scored his very first goal! However, that pleasant surprise aside, it got me thinking… I really need to bite the bullet and get some proper clothes….

This news greatly amused L. ‘Mwahahahahahaha’ was her reponse when I mentioned at the weekend that I may need to go shopping for a fleece. Mainly because I have an immense hatred for the hideous garments. (See first ever blog). I mean, who looks good in a fleece? Anyway, I have to bite the bullet. There is absolutely no way I can continue the winter outdoor pursuits of Welly Walking and football watching without a set of thermals, some proper shoes and a warm coat. Curse you the British climate! And L, please try not to take too much pleasure watching me spend money at ‘Go Outdoors’… It’s just too mean…!

Eating from the bin......?

I've had a rotten week.

It's involved major amounts of stress at work, an altercation between my car and a white van, not wanting to let people down so being involved in things I really wish I wasn't and various other irritants.

The thing that drives me most mad is my seemingly complete inability to stop with my most self-destructive behaviour. I've recently met a friend of BJM's who reportedly said to her 'Your friend Michelle seems really together and intelligent. Why the hell is she blahblahblah?' And do you know what? She's not the first person to say that. My close friends (and now very astute people I don't know that well) have been saying for ages that things need to change in the world of Michelle (see: Rant No 1) and yet, here I am repeating the same patterns of behaviour. Over. And. Over.

The upshot is, I think, that I am shockingly bad with men. This has been somewhat disguised by the fact that I've been in long-term relationships for pretty much all of my adult life. In fact, you could say that I struck it lucky. That I ended up in relationships with men who were, in the main, decent, honest people (not counting the latter behaviour of husband No 2 you understand.....Dickhead). Now I've been let out into the big, bad world of dating, I'm a danger to myself. I love male attention. Love it. (But hey, let's face it – who doesn't?) But this really does me no favours. I'm too easily sucked in. Too keen to find my next (oh god!) true love and maybe even my soul-mate (despite the fact that I don't believe that soul-mates exist, there is a tiny flicker of hope in my mind that refuses to be extinguished). I get hooked on the fact that there may well be that perfect man out there, just for me. That man who'll really, really want to be with me – and my children – and who'll I'll be deliriously happy with. Does he exist? God, I don't know. He hasn't shown his face round here so far that's for sure....!

(I will also confess to completing every 'Which SATC character are you?' quiz on Facebook (please don't judge me....) and every bloody time, I think, 'I'll come out as Carrie. She's sassy, she's independent and got it sorted'. But no. I get Charlotte. Every sodding time! There really is no hope :( )

I was out with friends and colleagues last night and got chatting to one girl, who at 38, reported that she absolutely loves being single. She wouldn't change it for the world. And do you know what? I believe her. And boy do I envy her. (See, she's Carrie...!) Me though (Charlotte - Boooooo), I hate it. I not only hate it, I loathe it and I detest it. I said as much to J last night. My other friends who were part of the conversation were a bit surprised to say the least. They knew, they said, that I was keen on 'the-one-that-would-never-happen' but they never realised that actually, I really wanted to be part of a couple. They thought that I was pretty together, that a man would be nice, but generally, I had a pretty full life. But the sad fact is that I only really put a value on myself if I'm wanted, desired and loved by a man. (Oh God! Does that sound awful when I see it in black and white?)

Recently someone used a cracking analogy in a bid to make me see sense. They said that part of me was starving for (male) attention and that 'if you were starving for food, Michelle, you'd eat from the bin. And that's what you're doing now, as far as men are concerned; eating from the metaphorical bin'.

And she's right.

That's never good is it?

Hmmmmmmm

 

Never drink and dial

So, I've had my birthday (I survived) and with it came several nights out, all of which included alcohol. Now I have a recurring fear about these drunken evenings. I always wake up the next day with this thought; 'what the hell did I do with my phone?' And I don't mean 'Where is it? Have I lost the most expensive thing I own?' No. What I mean is; who have I sent drunken text messages or emails to? How many drunken 2am calls have I made? Have I written embarrassing stuff all over my own, or worse still, someone else's Facebook wall?

The best and worst thing I've ever bought is my iphone. I love it and I hate it. All that communication at your fingertips. It's all too easy to send some random text or email to the current object of your affections. Something helpful along the lines of 'Do you have any idea how I feel about you?' Or similar. Something that might spark a conversation that could lead to something wonderful. Or, more likely, something that is so buttock-clenchingly, watch-through-your-fingers mortifying you feel you may actually die of shame. The wonderful stuff only ever happens in films. The embarrassing stuff? Well, that happens all the time.

Most recently, I enjoyed several drink with friends (one Pornstar Martini and several thousand Cosmopolitans to be precise). The evening was not a particularly late or raucous one but alcohol – it's like some sort of truth serum isn't it? Suddenly, telling that certain someone that you think about them all the time seems the most reasonable thing in the world to do. 'What's the worst that could happen?' you ask yourself. Well, you could end up looking a complete arse for one. 'But at least I'll know' you try to tell yourself. Know what? That he doesn't feel the same and actually now you'll never hear from him again? FFS.

Anyway, back to my evening out...I got chatting to one very glamorous and gorgeous friend. We got talking about men. We've had similar recent experiences and as the evening progressed, she announced 'I'm gonna send a text!' Really? Nooooooo! Don't do it. Or just draft it. Don't send it. Or we'll chat about it and draft it at home. Don't. Send. The. Text. Just don't. No good can ever come of it. But I didn't bank on her strong will did I? By the time we arrived at mine the deed was done. She'd drafted, written and sent - all in the space of the cab ride home.

She actually looked a bit shell-shocked as we opened our bottle of wine. 'Oh God. I thought I'd regret it in the morning but actually, I'm regretting it now. Oh God.'

We sat down to assess the damage. The text wasn't that bad to be honest. It was fairly open, didn't make any demands, just stated a few facts. However, did it elicit a response at 12.30am? No. And still none at 3.30am when she left for home. Before she left, she said; 'Are you going to send a text? One you may regret in the morning?' And do you know, I'd had enough to drink to consider it. I have a lot to say to be honest. Not enough alcohol was on board though (thank God!) to blindly say 'yeah – course' and start tap-tapping on my phone. No, just enough to make me think 'What's the worst that could happen?' (other than me having to shut my Facebook account, change my email address and never show my face in public when I get rejected – again – you mean?!) Luckily, I was just in control of my actions enough to prevent any sort of iphone communication action....

Many months ago TJ said to me 'Michelle, don't drink and dial. It ruins relationships'. She learnt the hard way. Many 2am calls were made. Many text messages were sent. It never ended well. And I think that's stuck. Because like the morning after most other drunken nights (most, not all...), I reached for my phone when I woke up all bleary-eyed. And with one eye shut and the other squinting (for fear of what I might see you understand), I checked my call log. None made. Phew! 

I checked the email sent box. Both accounts. Nothing. Thank God! 

I checked my Facebook account. No horrendous posts. Mops brow. 

And finally, the most dangerous communication tool of all.....I checked my text messages. Praise the Lord!

Nothing. I did nothing. 

Thank f**k for that!

Age is just a number......Yeah. Right.

As I approach this birthday of mine, I'm thinking (obsessing?) more and more about age. I keep being told by friends that it's just a number, it doesn't matter, it makes no difference etc etc..... Yeah. Right.

Why should it matter to me? I only feel around 28 and I'm told I look younger than my advancing years (by people older and younger than me – that's gotta be good right?) Even this week I was told by a few colleagues that they thought I was 31! Yay me! 31! I can live with that... Added to the fact that I usually poll around 32 when I'm out and about, I'm concluding that I do in fact look a fair amount younger than I actually am and that I haven't been fed a pack of lies by random people. Hoorah for the good genes inherited from my young-looking mum and all the time and effort spent applying eye cream!

However, I'm going to the Year 13 Leaver's Dinner in a couple of weeks. We have the option to go for free if we're prepared to be on duty, stay alcohol-free and deal with whatever incidents may or may not happen. I think it's pretty telling that my initial reaction to that is 'God no! Why the hell would I want to be in a room with loads of 18 year old girls, all dressed to the nines without a little alcohol on board to take the edge off?'

It's not like I want to be 18 or 19 again. Hell no! That'd be awful. I am actually a grown up, self-sufficient, independent woman who still has good boobs (so I'm told – see previous blog), has good hair (well, I think so) and more importantly, has an idea about what she wants from life and the people in it. I'd hate to be 19 again, thinking I knew everything, but in reality knowing nothing. So why do I feel the need to reach for the bottle of wine at the thought of having to enter a room full of these (in the main, absolutely lovely) young folk?

Probably because they're half my age. Like I said, I'm getting a little sensitive about the upcoming anniversary of my birth.... Last year, I attended the same event, had a surprisingly really good time and on the whole, managed to hold my own pretty well I think. It's that bloody birthday making me feel all insecure, I'm sure of it.

It's so annoying, this getting older thing. I was discussing this with oldest (not elderly) friend TJ. It seems totally unfair that during those late-teen, early twenty years, you may have the body but the confidence and general life know-how isn't there. And now I'm in my (very) late 30s, I have all the bloody life know-how you could want (oh boy do I?!) and the self-awareness that goes along with that. It's just that the body's not holding it's own as well as it once was.... That is just simply unfair! A true example of 'youth being wasted on the young' if ever I saw one! This is also why I probably shouldn't date younger men. My competition for these sorts would be women in their 20s. Now, I can't kid myself that I can compete with the 20-something woman in any way, shape or form. To be perfectly honest, I don't even want to. And surely I shouldn't have to? Surely I must have enough going for myself to be able to be competition enough in whatever category I decide to enter? (Note to self: this is why all future men I get involved with should have an age that begins with at least a 3...)

In the meantime, I'll wear my new dress (yes M it is quite low-cut...!) and new heels to the Leavers Dinner. I'll have a few glasses (bottles?) of vino and I'll enjoy the fact that M will be there to give me some much needed male attention and make me laugh.  The students will be great and we'll all have a jolly nice time.

And two weeks after that, I'll be........40. Ouch.

Should I be offended....?

Earlier this week, my really rather cheeky friend Ph commented that I was 'looking pretty darn boobilicious'. He then went on to tell me that he was in fact, addicted to boobs (well, he is male) and very much appreciated an attractive pair. Now this got me thinking (once I'd stopped laughing at the inappropriate messages he sent me post-conversation...!). Should I be offended by this?

I was wearing a lowish cut, pretty tight top but I hadn't put it on because of the 'boobilicious' effect (honest) it really was the first thing out of the wardrobe that morning. However, was I upset about the result of my wearing it? Absolutely not! Maybe I should've been a bit put out by him talking to me like that? After all, I was at work, we're professional people, but honestly, I thought it was funny and really rather flattering. I mean, a girl's gotta take a compliment where she can huh?

Without wanting to sound big-headed (because I'm not I assure you. As I've said before, many body issues....) I do get the 'nice rack' type comments on a fairly regular basis and most notably in the workplace. Financial service industry office workers, they're all about the tits (in the public service sector it's pretty similar so it seems...). I spent many a happy Friday afternoon (post lunch-time drinks you understand) trying to hide my glee when my boobs were given notable mention by the men on my team. I protested of course, ''Shut up J – you're an offensive, chauvinistic pig”. You have to don't you? It's what everyone expects. 

However, many years ago, one particularly cheeky (and rather hot) manager wrote a poem for me as I left the department for pastures new. I can't remember most of it, but the ending went something like: '21, there she sits – nice blonde hair and great big......eyes! Embarrassed? Slightly. Secretly chuffed that the young, handsome boss thought I had good tits and had just told the rest of my department? Hell yes! In all honesty, I'm always pretty chuffed when the ladies get a mention. I've spent years wearing the good underwear – I'm just pleased to continue to see the results and to collect the compliments. (Is compliment too strong a word? Have I totally lost my mind along with the vaguely feminist principles I once pretended to have?)

I feel similarly about being called a MILF. Not in the traditional way, by my son's friends (he's only eight – that would be very wrong) but by random younger men. Yes, it's a bit crass but come on; you show me one mother who would rather be a mother-you-wouldn't-like-to-f*ck and I'll show you a liar.

There's one young man in particular who has been known to refer to me as a MILF and several of my girlfriends think it's awful. How dare he? What a prick! What an offensive thing to say! Really?? To be described as someone a hot, younger man like to have sex with? How can that be bad? Ever? I tried to be offended, but nah....it was just mildly amusing and to be honest, really rather flattering.

So there you are. I'm sometimes called a MILF and sometimes complimented on having a good rack and on the whole, I'm happy with both. Not very in line with feminist principles, nor is it very P.C. But seriously, who cares? As I said, show me a mother who doesn't want to be a MILF or a woman who doesn't want to have good tits, and I'll show you a liar.

Maybe I should take the time to read more Germaine Greer.....?