Bank Holiday BBQ's

It's a bank holiday, we are British, that clearly means 2 things, 1 - it will rain and 2 -we will attempt at a BBQ. That's the joy of us Brits, one ray of sunshine and we are outside, shorts and sunnies on firing up a BBQ quicker than you can say sausages. So as the bank holiday weekend fast approaches, complete with a forecast of rain, I find myself caught in a BBQ planning frenzy. The occasion, as if we needed one, was the boys birthday. Now the first challenge with planning a party of any sorts is how to invite people. Long gone are the days your mum would take you to Woolworths to pick out the invites that you would lovingly write out to every member of your class. No longer is it socially acceptable to use MySpace to grab your friends attention (sooooo last season darling!) e-mails seem a bit too formal (your boss sends emails) and texting seems a bit too informal (great for I'm running late, not so much for future planning). After much debate and discussion it seems creating a Facebook event is the only way forward in this area. This is great, unless you’re a techno phoebe like me. Now admittedly the boy created the said event on Facebook and I was merely made an Admin. A what?! Yep that was my reaction too. So having decided how to contact your guests the next step is which guests. Easy enough I thought. Lovely work colleagues, check! Great circle of friends from all walks of life, check! Fab lifelong friends, check! But when we sat down to make the list we found guest list etiquette was the next problem. Guest lists, it seems, quickly become who's who of make ups, break ups and fall outs. After several fraught evenings compiling a guest list with me secretly wishing for an era where Woolies and your favourite felt-tip ruled the process and the boy trying to get the lap top to work we looked at the final cut. Most of who we had invited weren't even on Facebook. The irony. So eventually invites were sent and we could relax for a few days. Or so I thought. After the invites are sent comes an anxiety that no one will reply. A dread grows that these carefully selected friends can’t make it, that we will look like we have no friends, that we have accidently invited people mid feud. It’s exhausting! Finally the replies slowly trickle in and the list of confirmed guests grows, phew!

Next comes the super market sweep, a mad dash grabbing as much as you can, whilst you’re completely consumed with a total fear that there will not be enough for everyone to eat or drink. Suddenly the bumper pack of 12 different types of hummus seems an essential buy as are the bread sticks, peanuts and funny little cracker tings. Why is it always as your piling on enough food to feed a third world country on to the check out that you realise you have forgotten a vegetarian option? This leads to another panic and it’s the 2 minute dash in stilettos to try and find something veggie that is slightly more inspiring than a Quorn sauage.

Home and alone with the super market haul, it’s a quick attempt to decant said hummus et al into dishes and bowls in some feeble attempt to pass off the shop bought stuff for a homemade effort. Salad is thrown tres casually into a pretty bowl and even the most kitchen challenged of us can throw crusty bread into a basket. In another attempt to appear like a domestic goddess, I donned my Cath Kidston apron and made desserts (actually from scratch!) and managed to rustle up a quick brushetta. With the kitchen table heaving with food all that’s left to is to have a quick outfit change in to a pretty Whistles number and the first of the guests arrive. And breathe....

Later as I sit among friends, large vino in hand everyone is laughing, eating and chatting, I look around, reflecting on the past few hours and feel content. Despite the chaos, shopping trauma’s and a cake with a sunken centre (thank goodness for icing!) I’m with friends who I know would be here however sunken the cake is. It’s not about the amount of money the food cost, the hours it took to make it or the stresses of organising causes, it’s the quality of friends that matters. The type of friends who kindly push the wrappers in the bins down so no one can see the hummus isn’t homemade, who politely eat the cake and declare its lovely even when its clearly not,  but most importantly the kind of friends who will help you bring it all in from the rain! Bring on the British BBQ!!

Happy Bank Holidays Ladies xX

Drivin' me crazy!!

At the tender age of 17 one of my many ambitions was to pass my driving test. I couldn’t wait till the big day I turned that magic number and I could hit the road, which I perceived to be, the ultimate in independence.  On the day of my 17^th birthday I found myself booked into a lesson, cash burning a hole in my pocket and my nerves jangling. Little did I know at that point it would take me many more years, handfuls of cash and 7 failed tests before passing on the 8^th attempt to legally be independent on the road! Never the less that day finally arrived one cold November morning and I was as free as a bird. I remember walking home feeling like I had no worries in the world, wondering what I could do with the money I would have, now I didn’t have to pay for lessons or tests. Two weeks later I had my hot little paws on my first car and an empty bank account from purchasing a high prioritised Dolce & Gabbana key ring to put the keys on. The open road called and off I went, Cascada blasting (what?! It was the early noughties!!) If only things had stayed that simple......

Fast forward several years later and I’m a little less naive about the world of cars, my enthusiasm for the open road has also dwindled somewhat. To those who know me I do appear more than a little cursed when it comes to cars and driving so it’s no surprise I’m a chronic sufferer of car hypochondria. When it takes 8 attempts to pass your test, maybe destiny is saying you shouldn’t be on the road! Every rumble, squeak and groan my car makes sends me instantly  into a state of panic that something has broken, dollar signs flash before my eyes and my chest tightens with anxiety. I also shamefully spend my time not gazing at the road but at the dashboard for tell tale warning lights to click on.

Most of the time I must admit my car hypochondria is all in my head but on the occasions it actually isn’t a quick call to the AA hosts a whole new set of issues occur and high lights my complete lack of car knowledge. Simple requests like ‘pop the bonnet love’ and ‘what’s the engine size’ send me into a state of panic. Shamefully I have no idea and it’s quite a skill to look as though I’m carefully thinking of my response, whilst trying to quickly text the boy who is a fountain of such knowledge. Not a moment Emmeline Pankhurst would have been proud of. One such time found me stood on the drive in my 4 inch heels, perfect mani/pedi and bottom lip trembling. Mr AA asked me to help him steer my car into the right position. After trying to steer whilst the PAS was inactive and getting nowhere, Mr AA looked me up and down and asked if my boyfriend was in. ‘No’ I replied through gritted teeth, ‘he isn’t’. Smug man 1 – Girl Power 0.

The other big issue I have with driving is the petrol station. What an event! I, as many other girls, have sustained broken nails, stained clothing (the irony of spilling petrol on my Diesel jeans still isn’t funny to me!) and general humiliation as I struggle to get the petrol cap off without dropping it. Next comes the constant battle with my will power as you go to pay and find a selection of chocolate and crisps just politely sat by the till. You can hear them whisper, buy me, eat me, you know you want me, NOOOOO!! My wise friend Miss K suggested to me earlier this week that all petrol stations should be manned by hunky men who would spare you the petrol station horror and fill your car for you. Brilliant idea Miss K, get writing to BP!

Aside from the headaches cars can give us to women, these little cans on wheels can be an extension of not just ourselves but our living space. We are as women are secretly quite attached to our bundles of steel. Myself and several friends admit to naming our cars, I have another friend who spends every Sunday lovingly washing and cleaning her car. They are after all great places to hide those secret purchases you made in the sale, stashing empty chocolate bar wrappers you would like to forget you had consumed and it is conveniently big enough to store an outfit change, make up, bottled water, a small snack and hair strengtheners all in the boot. In your metal world you are the master of the stereo, controller of the heating and navigator of your own journey. Just for the short time ladies we really are Queen of the road, Emmeline would be proud!  xX

I'm bringing sexy back?

It was when I was at university that I first learnt this particular fact about myself. Our task was to write a musical. Now writing a musical is easy enough for students study performing arts, you would think. So as a group we wrote said musical, a short and comical piece we were all fairly proud off (ish!!). This musical was set in a lap dancing club (think Miss Saigon esq, or so we thought) and it required us to choreograph a rather provocative dance routine. No problem. So as we got into character, strutting our stuff, leg warmers and all, believing we were the kids from FAME! a fellow student looked at me, declaring in front of my group that I ‘wasn’t sexy’. A fatal blow for any girl and aspiring performer! As I picked up my bottom lip and self esteem from my jazz shoes I realised that she wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t a reflection of my acting abilities but something definitely lacking inside me. As I travelled through my twenties I came to terms with my lack of sexiness and accepted I had a stylish look or a funky look or as more commonly seen on me, a dragged through the hedge backwards look! I feel content that as I head into to my thirties I am who I am and I have achieved what I wanted to, all without sexiness. So when my friend Miss N suggested pole dancing was the latest weight loss craze and she would love to have a go, I fully supported her. It was as we were talking and I was secretly admiring her confidence that I realised I wouldn’t mind going with her and trying this new fitness craze out (anything to shed those inches!!). After browsing the web and finding a fab deal, I found myself fully signed up to pole dancing classes and face to face with an old anxiety, I wasn’t sexy.

As the day of the class loomed closer, this anxiety began to rise. Images of size 0 women, doing perfect spins, oozing sexiness haunted me, knowing I would never achieve this Holy Grail. All I could see was an image of myself looking like Winnie the Pooh hugging his honey pot – not sexy! On the actual day in a last ditch attempt to tone and sculpt myself into a super model I went for a run, did an hour of yoga and spent much of the afternoon shaving, exfoliating and moisturising my stumpy little legs. The shear horror of leaving the house in tiny shorts (required for the class) was enough to send me running for the nearest cake but I persevered and made it down the drive to the car with Miss N in tow. As I drove there I was slightly relieved that Miss N was also feeling a little apprehensive and as we giggled at ourselves I began to relax a little. Once there, signed in and warmed up we were shown to our pole by the instructor, who was very lovely. There was only 3 of us to the pole and as I looked round at Miss N and the other student both of whom I was sharing with, I quickly established I had drawn a short straw. Typical me, I had chosen to share the pole with 2 6ft Amazonian goddesses, both with fabulous long legs, one of whom is my very good friend!! Great for the old self esteem! The instructor had us straight on the pole, showing us moves I would have said were impossible for me to do. However, nearly an hour into the class I had not only gotten my feet off the ground, I had twirled, spun and high kicked myself proud. Not bad for a beginner who has a shameful lack of upper body strength. Meanwhile the 2 long legged goddesses had long mastered that and also managed to looked lean and elegant, something I am yet to achieve! When the class came to an end and we headed out to the car neither Miss N nor I could walk, THE PAIN!! But more than the pain was the giggles and laughter. I think I can say for both of us that we had never had so much fun exercising. I finally understand these insane people who claim exercises realise endorphins. Pole dancing really does. Feeling high on endorphins we are now fully signed up to carrying on learning to pole dance!

As I sat in the bath later that night, soaking my super aching joints and bruised legs, I reflected on my feelings and the anxiety the class had originally raised. As women do we ever truly feel sexy? Or is sexy an image the media sells us? An image that’s good at making us feel inadequate if we can’t work 40 hrs a week, look after our families, cook organic food from scratch and get that promotion all whilst looking like an Agent Provocateur ad? So no, pole dancing hasn’t made me feel sexy, it’s given me something better. It’s given me laughter with a good friend, a sense of achievement and an immense sense of pride that I had the confidence to have a go. What more could a girl ask for?

xX

The Reel Deal?

The cinema always has a wonderful place in my mind, an image of 1950's glamour, romance and excitement. Big plush seats, the air filled with the excitement of a first date and the big screen filled with images of Marilyn Monroe or Audrey Hepburn in a classic film. Fast forward to earlier this week, to  the hard reality of cinema going and I find myself on date night in a huge, uninspiring concrete shell, air con blasting, watching the latest Hollywood blockbuster that I’m sure no girl will  ever remember the name of next week, let alone next year. Yep ladies in the name of equality it was gentleman’s choice this week. Now I was already slightly disgruntled at the cost of being trapped in a freezing cold room, knowingly giving up 2 hrs of my life for a film I had zero interest in. My debit card visibly wept knowing it was paying the same price for this experience as it had a Chanel lipstick the week before. So with the boy suitable loaded with ice-cream and sweets, the air con causing me chill blains and my debit card quietly sobbing in my Cath Kidson shopper, we settled to watch the film. It was only as Natalie Portmans face beamed down at me from the giant screen and the boy started smirking that I realised 1) he had completely gazumped me and 2) it was going to take a lot more than a mini curly whirly to get through the next 2 hours! So started 2 hrs of special effects, peppered with load bangs and the occasional violent scene. As I grimaced in the freezing dark I snuck a glance at the boy. I couldn't help but smile through my chattering teeth as he looked thoroughly enamoured with the whole thing. As I sat there letting my gaze flicker between the screen and the boy my mind began to wander. As a girl, I love films with a happy ending, something with an emotive journey that we can learn from or a kick ass heroine with sky scraper heels. We have all, at some point, wanted a movie stars body, wardrobe and shoes. I mean who hasn't watched 'The Devil Wears Prada' and identified with having an evil boss? Or seen themselves in Eat Pray Love? But what makes these films so appealing to us?
For us girls it’s what we were brought up on. The happy endings complete with Prince Charming, fabulous dresses and all our wishes being granted. It was the stuff that fuelled our childhood games and shaped what we wanted to achieve today. As we leave our childhood with our dreams tightly packed in our hearts, survive our teenage years relatively unscathed and hit adulthood we realise that all this happy ending, life is perfect business is truly an urban myth. Now I’m not saying life is rubbish and everything is negative as that’s clearly not true. I do however think Disney has a lot to answer for. Never once did they imply that Prince Charming wasn't all he himself made out to be, neither did they mention relationships take time, energy and patience. Surprisingly it seems to have slipped their minds. I often wonder if good old Walt was trying to tip us off in Snow White, after all what man isn’t Sneezy (sorry, Man - Flu), Sleepy (conveniently when DIY or any other job they don’t want to do needs to be done), Dopey (this blog isn’t long enough to give you all the examples I could), Grumpy (mainly the morning, and when their team loses, and when they have had a bad day, and when there is a D in the day of the week) and Doc (because they think they are fully qualified when they self diagnose Man-Flu). I can only assume Happy and Bashful were added as token gesture by the dream machine that is Disney. So it’s no surprise that our real lives are falling somewhat short of our childhood dreams. We live in a world where there is no prince charming, the fabulous dress has to wait until pay day and there is no such thing as a happy ending, the world keeps turning and life keeps going. It’s no wonder we all just want 2 hrs in a world where there is no such thing as a bad hair day, where prince charming does exist and designer dressers are handed out like penny sweets. Surely it’s not too much to ask? Yet all boys want to watch are horror films, or action films with violence and bloodshed. Don’t they get that this is our idea of hell? But for boys their childhood hero’s were characters from Marvell comics, men who could save the world and get the girl all before tea time. They grew up play fighting, being encouraged to compete with each other, learning that the only place worth worrying about was 1st. So to them this is their fairy tale fodder. How many of them grew up to be hero’s, with rippling muscles? How many of them always win first place? It seems to me these boys need their escapism as much as we do, even if it’s an escape to a very different place!

A Weighty Issue........

Two bank holiday weekends, Easter and chocolate eggs, BBQ's, meals out, nights out, trips to the Seaside....... Wow what a fab, busy, calorie busting time we have all been having!! I for one have loved every single moment, after all it’s only once a year you can get away with eating chocolate for breakfast! What could be better than a day on the sofa, drinking tea, watching Mary Poppins (yep it was on!) and having a competition to see who can eat the most Cadburys Creme Eggs?! Burgers on BBQ's, fish and chips by the sea, copious amounts of alcohol consumed by all and who could resist a cream tea on the day of the Royal Wedding? All delicious and not one of your five a day insight. But where does this leave us come Tuesday morning when work and real life rudely bite us on our ever increasing back sides? For some of us its back to our dedicated diets, listening to our tummy’s rumble, clocking watch til lunch time whilst our more admirable sisters shrug of the weekends antics and carry on with life. I would like to say I fall into the latter category but shamefully I am firmly in the first. Food and guilt is synonymous for us women. Whether it’s too much or not enough we often find ourselves battling inner demons when it comes to our diets. For me personally I try to be as healthy as I can, letting myself have treats on special occasions. But for some reason that take away or cake I snuck in last night always seems to haunt me......

Ask any female, be it your friend, colleague or sister if they are on a diet and the answer will almost certainly be an emphatic YES! Sadly most of us look in the mirror and give ourselves a harsh critique. For some of us it’s our hips, for other's it’s our bums and tums, the only thing we have in common is that we are not happy with what we have and who can really blame us? With media pressure so high and magazines parading 14 yr old waif's on the pages as our inspiration, who wouldn't look at their own thighs and grimace? Celebrities with dinky 24 inch waists and not even a tiny bit of cellulite surround us on a daily basis from the TV and adverts showing us unrealistic images to aspire to. According to the Guardian newspaper in April 2010 the top 3 jobs wanted by 5-11 yr old girls were to be an actress, pop star or model. I guess that's the power of advertising for you and don't the advertisers know it! From slimming clubs and specialist diets to crèmes and lotions that promise the world, our beauty isles are a land of expensive false promises. For most of us despite our grumbles about our flabby tummy/bum/thighs we get on with life but there is always one.....

The Diet Obsessive
She can't actually get through the day without telling you how many points she has consumed today or if it’s a green or red day. Endless facebook status's about how far she has run, how much weight she has lost (complete with pictures) and a never ending stream of bizarre tips! How to loose friends and isolate people in one easy step.

The Fickle Dieter
Every Monday is a new diet plan and a new exercise routine. The more extreme the better and despite protests from friends about how practical/safe this diet is she is dedicated to it.......until Thursday. This girl is constantly caught in an unproductive cycle with few results and sadly many tears.

The Super Skinny Secret Dieter
The worst kind of dieter out there. The one that makes us ladies feel guilty and envious in one fell swoop. She is barely a size zero, meets you for lunch, eats a giant burger and laughs at your healthy salad. How does she do it? How can she seem to eat like a horse and yet be so slender? The sad truth is she is as much as a diet addict as the next woman, she just can't be honest about it.

We have all had the mis fortune to know and maybe have lunch with a nightmare dieter. It’s a sad and draining experience when all you want to do is enjoy the food and the company. There comes a time in your adult life (I hope!) when we can look in the mirror and think 'this is ok'. For me whilst I'm on the journey to get there I try to stick to a healthy diet and exercise. Which brings me to my big confession, I went for a run. In an attempt to find a healthy balance between easter egg consumption and maintaining my weight it seemed a good idea. Now I'm not going to lie, I didn't exactly enjoy it but it did balance out my guilt. So ladies if you see news paper reports of a small pink hefferlump lumbering across the North Yorkshire country side don't worry, its only me!