Everso slightly traumatised...

My day didn’t start well today. To be honest, trying on a dress purchased for the upcoming Leaverzzz Dinner (always a somewhat stressful event to dress for to be honest. See previous blog) at around 12.30am after a fabulous evening of great company, lovely food and wine was not really going to send me to bed ready for a blissful slumber was it?? Of course, I tried it all on, decided I looked hideous and immediately started searching on my phone for an alternative outfit. I gave up after around 10 minutes. Online shopping in a foul temper at 1am on an iphone is not conducive to finding an amazing, flattering-yet-stylish outfit fit for an evening spent with young people. So, I took myself off to sleep, whilst watching Desperate Housewives (really am becoming something of a cliché…)

Predictably, I woke up early, still in a foul mood. Brunch and shopping with C was on the cards and I needed to sort out the outfit for this bloody dinner. I text C at 830 telling her my sorry tale….that the dress I’d bought looked hideous on me and that, rather than shopping for accessories for my dress, I had to in fact shop for a whole new outfit. In the meantime, I was frantically searching online for an alternative. I even looked at Next. Everyone knows how I feel about Next, but needs must… (In fairness, I did spot a rather sexy pair of shoes and matching clutch…who knew?) C suggests I bring the dress over to hers for an honest assessment before I scrap the whole idea. So I do just that. It actually looked better than I first thought (there's no doubting though that it would look much better with some body-smoothing underwear. Clearly) despite the fact that I modelled it for her complete with navy blue Converse All Stars. C agreed. So we set out with a plan of action. I wanted to buy a white, slouchy blazer, sexy shoes - flats and wedges (I’m learning to waltz for the event (!) and unfortunately my dance partner, lovely though he is, is too short to allow me the luxury of a 4 inch wedge heel whilst being twirled around the floor), clutch bag (zebra print – fabulous!), jewellery and the vile body-smoothing underwear. C is looking for a cute summer dress. After a quick stop for brunch (smoked salmon and poached eggs…mmmmm) we head to Primark (no judgement – many a fabulous accessory has been picked up in Primark). C picks up an amazing pair of zebra print heels, I get some glam snake-skin flats for waltzing in; but then the trouble starts…… We head towards the underwear. It’s hideous, it really is. And yes, I know no-one is going to see it (believe me, if they did, I’d certainly never see them again!) but I can’t bring myself to try on the skin-toned monstrosities. ‘TRY THEM ON!’ C urges. ‘What’s the point of buying what you think may be ok, only to get it home and find that it doesn’t work? You’ll only have to come back again.’

‘Fine’ I concede. Though I very much love Primark, there is no way I want to come back for at least another month. At least. And these are desperate times. C selects a couple of sweet dresses and I join her in the fitting rooms with my scaffolding. 

Now there’s something about changing rooms that just depresses me. The lighting is harsh, the mirrors are bright and frankly, I immediately just want to cry. This is exactly why I usually just buy stuff, then spend ridiculous amounts of time queuing up at various store’s customer service desks taking clothes back that don’t fit/look hideous. Anyway, we disappear into our respective cubicles. I don’t really want to go into too much detail about what happened in there but I will say this; after 5 minutes, I decided that this was never gonna work and clearly the only option was for me to stay at home on the evening of the dinner, wearing sweats and a hoodie and eating ice-cream straight from the tub… some of you must know this feeling surely…? Meanwhile, in C’s cubicle, it was all kicking off! There’s no need for details, but there were hysterics, much, much laughter, tears and an amount of ripping of fabric. Seriously, the whole Primark fitting rooms experience was really rather distressing for both of us. Never, ever again. We slunk out, paid for our shoes and I think it was fair to say, moped dejectedly around the rest of the Cabot Circus hating Primark and ourselves (yeah yeah, it’s been said before - drama queen). I ditched any plans to accessorize my outfit. I mean, what was the point….? C went off the idea of buying a cute summer dress. We were pretty miserable…and to be frank, traumatised is probably not too strong a word (there’s that dramatic streak again…) In honesty, we concluded that the only way out of the slump and to end the day on a positive note was to make our way to a pub for some alcohol.

We made our way to one of my local pubs where we ordered in a fairly restrained manner – half a Thatchers shandy (I know, you should probably never dilute Thatchers Gold) for me and Fosters with a dash for C. We add a portion of home-made pork scratchings (to complete the classy picture of two sophisticated girls-about-town) and settle ourselves outside to cheer ourselves up. (Though I'm not sure C has forgiven me fully for divulging our changing room secret to my young male pal (and waltz partner) who happened to be there having a civilised luch with his family. Whoops) Luckily, C and I are pretty good at seeing the funny side of most situations and it’s not long before we’re ever-so-slightly hysterical and laughing almost uncontrollably at our unfortunate Primark experience. I’ve calmed down at this point and reluctantly concede that I will be attending the Leaverzzzz dinner. I also reluctantly concede that I will buy some vile body-smoothing underwear to make my dress look presentable. I will however, order it online and try it on in the comfort of my own bedroom. C however, does not make any declarations about looking for another cute summer dress. I fear she may be scarred for life.

And during the process of writing this (I have the attention-span of a goldfish, 10 minutes on one activity at a time is plenty), I’ve ordered the white slouchy blazer (25% off – yay me!), earrings, bangles, heels and the fabulous zebra-print clutch. Oh…and the amazing body-smoothing underwear. I will go to the ball! I just may look ever-so-slightly crap...!

I'd hate to be in your position....

WARNING! I wasn’t in a great mood when I wrote this. This is something of a rant. Apologies.

‘I’d hate to be in your position’. That’s what one of my colleagues announced as I sat chatting to a friend about the date she’d lined up for herself at the weekend (it went very well too – just in case you were wondering…)
‘Oh yeah?’ I replied as I looked up from my (interrupted) conversation. ‘What position is that then?’ ‘Ah you know….Back on the dating scene and all…Particularly for you two….with kids and exes and all. It must get a lot harder as you get older…’
Gee thanks! That’s the sort of vote of confidence I could do with right now. NOT. Why don’t people talk to me about how exciting meeting all these new people could be? How I might finally wind up with my soul-mate? (I don’t really believe in soul-mates, so that might be tricky…But you know what I mean…) The doom and gloom story, that’s peddled out to me with alarming regularity. I sometimes think some of my colleagues think I’ve been some sort of nun since Husband No2 vanished. Not true. I also think they believe me to be somewhat stupid.
‘Have you tried on-line dating Michelle? Something like Match.com? I've seen their advert on TV - it looks lovely!’ No….I’m a reasonably intelligent woman who is not living under a rock somewhere and who has been mostly sort-of-single for the last three years... ‘OF COURSE I HAVE!’ I always reply. I just hate it!
‘But my friend’s sister’s friend met their long-term love/live-in partner/husband on Dating Direct/Match/PoF! You just never know….!’ they add wisely, as if to solve all my problems. Really?? Well for every lovely, happy story (and yes, I even personally know a few), I can give you 200 horror stories. 200 stories that, in a good frame of mind would make you howl with laughter. But God, in a poor frame of mind, could make you reach for the razor blades.

I’m pretty sick of the platitudes to be honest. The ‘you’ll find someone when you least expect it’, the ‘you’re a great catch – any man would be lucky to have you’ and my personal favourite; ‘it’ll happen when you’re not looking’. (How the hell does that work?? Trust me, if you’re single, you’re looking). They’re all bullsh1t. And the fact that they’re usually dished out by people who have been married for…oh, around 100 years doesn’t help. What the hell do they know? And yes, I realise that people are only being kind, trying to boost my confidence and make me feel slightly less of a social misfit. After all, they don’t know that I have a near pathological fear that I will die alone (and in true Bridget Jones style, be eaten by my very large and rather haughty cat). They don’t know that I really don’t deal in platitudes (particularly when they’re prefaced with the ‘poor you – it must be awful for you’ type bollocks).

Now I don’t want you reading this and thinking ‘Oh dear God, she’s desperate’. I’m not. There are things I could’ve taken further but chose not to, just as there are things (well….actually…just the one) that I’d like to have run with to see what happened, but as I’ve learnt at my cost over the years, you can’t make someone want you. I’d been in relationships in one way or another continuously from the age of 16 until three years ago, so I’m pretty sure I can be in another. It’s just that I don’t want to live out yet another platitude; ‘you have to kiss a lot of frogs Michelle, until you get that prince’. What a pile of crap! I’m pretty sure I don’t have to date a load of losers to find someone I actually want to be with for a prolonged period of time. I think, after all this time, that I’ll know whether the man in question floats my boat or not. (So to speak…)

So there you have it. Rant over. Being single sometimes sucks. Being single sometimes rules. But if you’re going to talk to me about it, please don't tell me how you're soooooo glad you're not me and also please remember; I deal in honesty – not platitudes.

Phew! I’ll shut up now.

You can't polish a turd.....fact!

So…I’m a little bit crap. At most things. Good friend Sa and I can be heard to remark that the phrase ‘you can’t polish a turd’ is made for us. Sa uses it to describe her physical appearance (which let me say right now, is not in the least bit turd-like. She always looks lovely). But me, I reckon I can apply it to almost everything I do…

See this cup of coffee balanced precariously on is saucer, ready to spill over at any moment…?

 That’s my cup of coffee from a very lovely afternoon in Clifton this weekend. (C was not impressed about having to buy me a coffee in the bar. ‘Seriously Michelle, a coffee?? I have NEVER ordered a coffee in a bar in my life before’). What the photo illustrates to me is my overriding crap-ness (after C pointed it out to me obviously – I love a good analogy….or whatever it is in picture form…). It’s not on the saucer properly, it’s about to fall over and it’s all a bit, well dribbly and rubbish-looking. It just sums up the fact that, no matter how hard I try, everything I do is tinged (sometimes everso slightly, but it’s always there) with a bit of crap.

Here’s an example….I wrote about the hell that is the Yearbook photo a few blogs ago. Well the photos came back. This is what I looked like.

I’m not joking. Jabba the Hutt (for those of you who aren't Return of the Jedi fans). Despite my very best efforts and all the compliments of the day, I still look slightly (well quite a lot really) crap when a camera is shoved in my face. Spectacularly un-photogenic is the polite way of putting it I believe. (To add insult to injury, the Yearbook is proofed by my line-manager. I asked, well begged really, for me to be allowed to replace the Jabba-like photograph with one that I can actually bear to look at. The answer was a resounding no. Brilliant).

I also spend a large proportion of my day twiddling (is that even a word?) with my hair. I do it when I’m driving, in meetings (very professional), watching TV, chatting with friends….pretty much all of my waking time. I have no idea why I do it – I’ve always done it. Always. The result sometimes though is that I have weird bits of hair sticking up. Or that I get a massive knot that I can’t untangle. None of this looks good – the actual activity nor the end result.

It’s not just my appearance that is turd-like. The things I do day-to-day are also pretty rubbish. Like enrolling for the next stage in my degree, but forgetting to actually complete the registration process. Or being told that as I’d messed up too many times, the OU has put me on an alert system….meaning that if I mess up again, I will never, ever be able to study with them again. (The petulant teenaged streak in me is desperate to put this to the test…!)

And there’s more:
I’ve lost a little (loads more to go but it’s all in the right direction) weight recently and was paying for some huge Lego monstrosity in an extremely busy Tesco when my jeans fell down. Not a little bit down, but halfway-down-my-arse down. Black see-through knickers on display for all to see. (In truth I was part horrified, part delighted!)
I drive a Corsa. It’s a sweet little car and I’ve had it a little less than three years. In that time, I’ve lost two wing mirrors (neither was my fault. Honest), created £600 worth of damage by scraping the side of my car on a wall whilst trying to park and now I have a passenger door that doesn’t open from the inside (this does not create a good first impression – believe me). Could happen to anyone? Maybe. But it all happens to me.

Do you get the picture? I could go on for ages about this – but it’s depressing.

And do you know what? I sort of like that I’m a bit crap. I like to think that my ditzy inner-self is one of my endearing qualities. No one likes a show-off do they? No-one likes someone who’s utterly perfect all the time.
So, I may look a bit sh1t sometimes (especially in photos!), I may twiddle with my hair and tie it in knots. I may spill stuff in restaurants and walk into things. And I may have to get out of my car, just to walk round and let you out of the passenger side. But so what? I’m embracing the crap-ness.....and maybe even highlighting it....!

After all, as someone pointed out to me recently;

You can’t polish a turd…..but you can put glitter on it J

Anniversaries

I was happily chatting this afternoon, with someone who was not incredibly au fait with my recent past. ‘So how long has it been?’ she asked. ‘Three years’ I replied. ‘Actually, three years almost exactly. Three years on Easter Sunday’. Ouch.

I’ve also just read the most recent blog of very dear friend L. She also had a recent ‘anniversary’. One that to my shame, I forgot. It’s not one to be marked really, but I wish I’d have text her just so she knew I was thinking of her.

These things got me thinking… In honesty, the time of year in relation to the semi-shambles that is my life at times didn’t occur to me until this afternoon. And it makes me sad. I don’t want to hunt down the life that ran away and changed that Easter Sunday three years ago, but I’m a little tired of trying to find a replacement one.

However, as the wise L said in her own blog, you can’t change the past. You can only make the very best of the present and the future.

I guess I’ll keep trying to do that then.

Procrastination

I have lots of things to do. Lots. I have a very busy full-time job, a degree to complete, a separate foundation degree to embark on, writing projects to work on, some really important paperwork to get started with (speeding fine if you must know), a pretty healthy social life, as well as the day-to-day drudgery of running a home and a family.

So why, on a free evening when I have the house pretty much to myself, do I find myself in front of the TV watching the home shopping channels??! I could be doing anything, writing, studying, ironing, housework; something productive at least. But no, I decide that watching (frankly odd) TV presenters demonstrating activities like steam-cleaning a dirty hob, or making chips in some giant-hot-air-frying-thing is infinitely better than say, reading a Psychology text-book or actually ironing some clothes.

Now I have a lot of guilty pleasures as far as TV is concerned. I love a bit of trash telly; Ashley Banjo’s Secret Dance Crew, America’s Next Top Model Allstars (really doesn’t get any better than that, believe me), throw in a bit of Big Fat Gypsy whatever and a dollop of pretty much anything on the Crime and Investigation channel and you’ve got a pretty good idea of my secret TV watching habits. But this home shopping stuff….this is a new low. This is procrastination at its very worst. (I have to point out, very firmly, that I have never, I repeat never, been even so much as tempted to buy anything at all from these channels. HONEST!)

So, tonight I’m doing some productive stuff. I think it’s time for some resolve. I bought a new notebook and two lovely pens yesterday. Instead of trying not to get excited about the new range of Liz Earle skincare on QVC (this stuff is actually very good. I kid you not!), I will use my new notepad to make notes for future writing projects. (I’ve got blogs in my head that need writing, maybe a longer term project as well as a co-writing thing). I’ll also enrol (successfully this time) onto my foundation degree course. I may even get round to paying my speeding fine and opening the ever-growing pile of post that is sitting on my desk.

Oh...but I’ve just noticed that The Apprentice is about to start…

The resolve starts tomorrow…