Lash Lift Shit Show

It’s rare I treat myself to any kind of professional beauty treatments.  Partly because I do them at home to spare the expense but also because I have trust issues where my face is concerned.  If a beautician buggers up your face they might feel regret but at the end of the day it won’t be them walking around with the end result so if they make a hash of it, they’ll apologise, knock off some money and send you on your way.

Why do I have the memory of a potato? Why didn’t I remember this when I made a booking at the local beauty salon for LVL lashes and high definition brows?

My own eyelashes, although very long are poker straight. A trait dealt to me courtesy of my Dad, so thanks for that dad.  Not a slight curve or remote curl in sight.  This means that on a daily basis I have no other option but to use an eyelash curler to achieve a full looking eye by curling the shit out of them.  It is time consuming, tedious and the results can be varied depending on how rushed I am so when these new fandangled lash perms and lash lifts made an appearance on the beauty scene a few years ago I was first in line. I admit some treatments have been better than others but I’ve usually left the salon with lovely dark curled lashes.  Just for the record I’ve always had a good set of eyebrows, much like Animal out of The Muppet’s, and have never really touched them except to shape them a bit. The problem is, as our old friend ‘Age’ has caught up with me I’ve started to notice parts of my once thick brows require some pencilling, which is just my least favourite thing to do so I was hoping a spot of HD browing might help.

It’s been a while since I last dabbled in the unpredictable world of beauty therapists so I did some research and was pleased as punch to discover that there was a highly recommended place just around the corner from my 10 year old’s school.  Perfect.

Appointment booked for 9.30 on Thursday. Brilliant.  Couldn’t wait. Very excited.

As I entered the salon there were 6 ladies bustling around already busy with clients.  A good sign, because a busy salon means lots of repeat custom from satisfied clients.

‘’Hello, are you Eliza?’’ Said a voice to my left.

As I turned to look I was met with the sight of a 12 year old child grinning like a Cheshire cat.  She continued ‘’ You’re my 9.30’’

Of course I Fucking was.  For absolute Fucks Sake.  

There was only another 6 fully mature women that worked there, why in Gods name did I think for a second that this would run smoothly and I would get an actual fully trained grown up with a few years experience under her belt to make my eyelash dreams come true, when there was a chance I could have an infant do it who had the life experience of a mayfly let alone any work experience. Just for reference, mayflies live for one day only.  They are born and then 24 hours later they are dead.

I could have said something before she started but I didn’t want to judge.  For all I knew she could be either a child genius that had passed all her beauty exams with flying colours at the tender age of 6 and was now super successful and in demand with a 2 year waiting list which I had been lucky enough to cut to the front of, via a last minute cancellation.  Or she might be 55 with 30 years experience but uses Olay twice a day?  Of course she could also have been the trainee, but I wasn’t jumping to conclusions, I was going to give her a fair go.

Laying on the bed in the treatment room with my eyes closed and the tiny little perm rollers in my lashes, I began to relax and drift off until the child said ‘’ It’s strange not being able to see isn’t it. But if I had to choose to be either blind or deaf I’d choose blindness because I can’t live without music.  I love it’’

What the Fuck? Had I heard her right?

I grunted something then pretended to be asleep. I’m all for a bit of small talk but something light hearted and general, not which sense or limb or relative you could live without.

‘’All done, and they look brilliant!’’  Said the child as she was attempting to prize open my left eyelid by scrubbing at the glue and the tint  that was blathered around my full socket. ‘’ Have a look before I start your eyebrows.’’

Looking in the mirror all I could see was a severely pissed off woman with panda eyes.The lashes on the right eye were lifted slightly but not to the degree they should have been and the lashes on the left were lifted even more pathetically and only in certain places. They looked thinner too? Maybe down to the rogue glue she had been trying to remove before she freed me from the little perming rods?  The whole thing was very underwhelming and disappointing not to mention plain annoying that I’d wasted an hour of my life at this shit show.

The child looked a little confused when I explained that they weren’t really what I was expecting and that I wouldn’t be letting her loose on my eyebrows.  I couldn’t risk her using a blowtorch or similar to tame them.

I HATE complaining.  It’s not in my nature and it creates negativity for me which I can’t bear so as a rule I try to let things go and move on.  Except I’d be buggered if I was letting go of fifty quid for the privilege of having someone ruin my eyelashes, so on this occasion I did complain and I did leave with my money still firmly in my pocket.  The owner was very pleasant about the whole thing and insisted that I not only keep my money but I also book another appointment the week after so the LVL lash treatment could be repeated and rectified.

Did I let her book the appointment- Yes

Will I be attending it- Absolutely not.

Would I rather lose a sense, a limb or a relative rather than return to this mediocre torture chamber for any further attempted procedures-  Probably.

Do I Forgive You? Hmmm, yeah go on then.

Ever accepted an apology you never actually got? 

For example, from your Husband that is a stubborn old goat and a massive bellend at times, especially when he does tricks like going to the pub after work with his mate, rings you for a lift and then after you’ve decided to stay for an hour, eaten tea there and left him to settle up while you fetch the car he then goes AWOL with his mate and ends up at home without you.  Let’s say for argument’s sake that in a completely theoretical situation (ahem) that once at home with his mate in tow, he then proceeds to show off and be cocky despite knowing he’s up to his neck in shit and the only reason he’s escaping a throat punch is because an outsider is present. Lets throw into the mix that you never receive a heartfelt apology, or any apology at all because even though it’s obvious to anyone that you deserve one, he isn’t emotionally well equipped enough to admit he was in the wrong, even at the age of 48. 

Ever been the bigger person and let something go even though it was a real struggle and honestly you would have rather chopped off both your legs and dragged yourself over the salt plains of Bolivia?

So continuing with the above theoretical situation, you realise that if you’re not going to leave him, which you’re not because despite being this way he is at heart one of the good ones, that you have to choose your battles wisely.  It turns out this isn’t one worth rocking the boat over and you accept the non existent apology.

It’s a yes from me on both accounts.  I want to make it clear that if you are also in my camp and have done either of these things you are already way ahead of the game and should pat yourself on the back for not only being a decent Human but also for being smart enough to know that by doing these things you are helping protect your mental health.

Please don’t misunderstand.  In no way shape or form am I advocating letting people treat you like shit or letting people think you are a pushover, for me personally when I decide to forgive someone for something it’s a very deliberate thing and not something that happens because I’ve given in, daren’t speak up or just want to forget about it.  To understand this better we have to discuss the term forgiveness.  When we forgive it does not mean it’s all okay.  In some unfortunate cases it might never be okay.  But what it does mean is that you have decided that the time has come when you are ready to draw a line under whatever it is that requires forgiveness, that you won’t let it rule your life or harass your thoughts continuously anymore.  

It is a decision to let it go.  

This doesn’t mean you will forget it.  In some instances it also means that you still might decide to break a friendship or end a relationship but with the knowledge that it will not affect your day to day living or impact negatively on your mindset.

Let’s hope that the fictional character in this story realised he had been let off the hook and shown some grace, and might consider this the next time he is tempted to behave in this manner again.

Unlikely.  But we can only live in hope, and who knows, maybe next time he may not be so lucky to escape a throat punch or a double eye poke . (If indeed this was a real situation and not a made up one containing a wildly fictional character. Ahem)

Vodka, Hot Tubs and Tits

Through my 20’s there was vodka, nights out, some rare outfit choices, dancing and it was messy, oh so messy. Through my 30’s there was exotic flavoured gin, sunny daytime drinking and it was still messy but not so late into the night, mainly because we’d start at 2pm instead of 9pm but still.

I’ve always been more of a social drinker than a house drinker, honestly if I’m not out dancing on a table somewhere and pulling a moonie with my tit out I’d much rather have a cup of tea.  So when lock down hit and the kids stopped sleeping at grandmas and socialising ground to a halt, so did my occasional blowouts.

We had better weather here a few weekends ago so the Lazy Spa hot tub came out and the garden bar got restocked. A Lazy Spa- A genius creation that is a blow up hot tub, essentially a massive paddling pool with generator to heat it and make bubbles. Is it called a Lazy Spa because it makes you lazy once you are in it? Or because the people who have them are too lazy to work overtime to save up for a real spa? Harsh but maybe fair, I’m not sure.  But at a fraction of the price of a proper one it’s by far the better option in my opinion. Who wants to work themselves to death to  be able to afford an inbuilt one only to have your children or anyone like me who can’t look after stuff, ruin it by scratching it, breaking the controls, dropping chips in it, peeing in it, accidentally kicking the filter off when snorkelling around it, or all of the aforementioned. Why bother taking the risk when you can enjoy life with not so much hard work or responsibility and still relax in hot bubbly loveliness.

We had a square hot tub shaped hole in our garden for 3 years. Husband was a little overzealous and dug it out in eager anticipation before we had the cash to buy one. The plan was to save up for a swanky all singing all dancing slice of opulence and luxury in the form of a top of the range model. The only problem was each time we had nearly enough cash to buy one, the money was needed to maintain or repair something else so after looking at the gaping hole that should have housed our fancy bubble bath for much longer than planned we had a change of heart. We laid some fake grass golf turf stuff over the garden Stacey Solomon style, covered the hole and gratefully accepted a Lazy Spa hand me down from my brother.

Anyway I digress.. back to a few weekends ago..

The children had nattered to go to grandmas because it’s fun there and after all she is in our childcare bubble so I threw caution to the wind and waved them off happily, safe in the knowledge that they would be grandparent bonding while Husband and I let loose. I appreciate everyone has their own way of doing things and that’s fine, everyone to their own but I’ve never been one for getting shitfaced in front of the children. When my ankle biters where little I was never a fan of these child friendly BBQs with friends. All day drinking in a garden with friends – yes I’m up for that. All day drinking in a garden with friends and every man and his dogs kids running around, but it’s ok, it’s kid friendly because there’s a paddling pool/ swing/ sand pit in the garden- No, I am not up for that. Personally I have to know that mine are safe and sound and not in any danger of dying the nano second I look away to talk a gulp of my mojito before I can relax and let my hair down, plus if I get into the situation of being on the wrong side of my 5th or 6th drink I certainly do not want little eyes and ears witnessing moonies and exposed tits that nearly always want to make an appearance at the last minute which is most definitely an age thing because this NEVER happened before I was 35.

So.. the letting loose.. There was a fancy spiced orange gin, vodka, 3 types of trendy IPA beer, music, singing, dance routines from all the classic musicals, silliness, 3 outfit changes due to the aforementioned silliness involving the lazy spa and a fully clothed Husband (3 times- what’s wrong with him?) But it was good to let off steam.

The next morning and the 5 days that followed had me feeling slow and confused. Confused in general but also confused about if I had actually been hit by a large vehicle on the night of the letting loose or during the night while I slept in bed. Maybe I hadn’t been involved in a car accident at all and I’d done 6 million squats and burpees instead and just not remembered? Both were front runners in the explanation as to why my body felt the way it did. Maybe it was because I couldn’t handle a good drink anymore and I should retire from the game, biting the bullet and hanging up my shot glasses? In recent years this is always the general consensus every time I have a few drinks and feel like a 90 year old woman for a full week afterwards. That is until the next time when I’m once again persuaded by Husband or my friends that are full of crazy that I need to blow the cobwebs off again. Then, we are back to square one where the vodka flows, the music plays, the dance routines commence and my tits that have become newly wild and free since my 35th birthday strain against my vest.

Dressing Gown, Crocs and a Nasty Surprise at the Petrol Station

I’m not very good at keeping my car full of petrol.  I just can’t seem to get to grips with making sure it never falls below half so that I never find myself in the unenviable situation of sweating out of my face in a mad panic wondering if I can make it to the nearest Esso station before I grind to a halt at the side of the road miles from anywhere.  And this isn’t a new thing.  It’s not something that has happened as I’ve grown old and complacent, I can report that unfortunately it has always been this way.  When I first passed my driving test at 17 and had the coolest car on the planet, Seth the ancient white Vauxhall Nova with body kit (yes I name my cars, and yes I had a body kit on it worthy of a boy racer) I managed to run out of petrol a few times in that first year alone, and always ended up being rescued by either my Dad or my Gramps with a petrol can in hand.  Since then, with the experience I have gathered on this subject, I have managed to be able to gauge fairly accurately how many miles I have left before I actually conk out, so usually can make it to fill up by the skin of my teeth when I’m running on fumes and the engine is probably already ruined from dragging up all the crap at the bottom of the petrol tank in an effort to keep going, a direct quote from Husband.

On a Wednesday my Dad is chief school picker upper and the kids go back to his house to run riot and have tea, and this particular Wednesday was no different.  It was the perfect opportunity for a spot of child free self care which on that night included an full body exfoliation and a tan courtesy of my new amazing find, Utan extra dark Brazilian tanning mousse.  The most amazing creation since sliced bread. Blather it on and leave for 8-10 hours, then shower off to leave an incredible feeling of body confidence.  The only downfall is that the colour of the tan when applying is quite dark and not natural looking at all for me as I can be quite pasty during the winter months but it helps to get full body coverage without missing spots and lowers the risk of streaking like sometimes happens with the transparent tanners.  I love rocking a tan. A real one from a beach holiday or an equally brilliant one out of a bottle.  It makes me feel sun kissed and streamlined and just altogether better about myself. 

As I was naturally airing myself and waiting for the dark brown mousse to dry out, which of course meant parading around the house fully naked and making Husbands eyes bleed, I got a phone call from Dad asking if I could collect the ankle biters instead of his usual drop off  as he had lost track of time and was in danger of missing his favourite program. He only lives a stones throw down the road from us, it would be a 10 minute round trip at the most, so freshly tanned up to within an inch of my life I grabbed my old tired tan stained dressing gown, slipped into my pink strawberry crocs, jumped into my car and sped off. 

As I pulled off down the road I suddenly remembered something terrible.  I had meant to fill up with petrol that day but as usual had put it off, telling myself I’d do it on the way to school tomorrow.  I had been meaning to do it all week since the light had come on but just hadn’t got round to it. Surely it would get me to Dads? But what about home again? What if we got stranded at the side of the road in the dark and because I’d stupidly not bothered to take my phone, would be forced to flag down an unsuspecting motorist looking like an overly eager lady of the night, in crocs so clearly not a very trendy one at that.   And if by a miracle we actually made it back home that night, what about the next morning, would I make it back to the petrol station?  

After a brief doorstep exchange and the kids’ 10 ton of school stuff had been piled into the boot we set off … to the Esso garage.. the decision had been made.  It was 8pm on a cold winter’s evening, and I forced myself to imagine normal people probably avoiding night time fill ups as much as I wanted to, whether they were in a dressing gown or had actually made acceptable clothing choices. Still half heartedly trying to convince myself that it was not going to be the social hub my mind had created, we proceeded to execute the car fill up mission as covertly and quickly as possible.

10yo: Where are we going?

Me: The petrol station, it’ll only take a minute

8yo: But you’re not wearing proper clothes and did you know that you’re a really funny colour?

Me: Yes, I know both of those things.

Both kids exchanged pained glances.

Pulling onto the forecourt, my heart sang.  Not a car in sight. Brilliant!

At the speed of light I exited the car, got the fuel cap off and wrestled the nozzle in whilst clutching my shabby dressing gown together in an effort not to expose myself. As I was completely unprepared with no purse or phone and was reliant on the emergency fiver I kept in the glove compartment, it didn’t take long.  I always try and keep a few quid in an obscure place in the car so I forget about it and am therefore not tempted to spend it, freeing it up for its actual job of being available in case of an actual emergency.  In the past it hasn’t always panned out this way and I am slightly embarrassed to say that on more than one occasion when I’ve found myself without my handbag , and before the days of Apple Pay I have been known to get fuel (seconds before I completely run out) and then once at the cashiers desk given an Academy Award winning performance pretending that I had just that second realised I had left my purse at home.  Luckily it never resulted  in police intervention and was usually settled by me filling in a form with my details and then having to bring the money back on the same day.  So with this in mind, Thank God for that fiver.  I was in no mood to give the performance of my life in a dirty dressing gown, pink crocs and no undercrackers.

Handing over my fiver to the cashier I couldn’t help but smile to myself.  I’d done it and had been undetected.  The lady behind the counter was eyeing me a little suspiciously but I avoided direct eye contact, and it’s not like I knew her. I walked to the door and reached for the handle that would take me back out onto the forecourt, back to my car and to victory, when I was all but knocked off my feet by a whirlwind in the form of a very smartly dressed woman in a mad rush. As we both quickly recovered from nearly knocking each other out I looked up at her laughing face to be greeted with…

‘’What the Fuck are you dressed as?’’

Like 20 ton of bricks being dropped on my head, it registered that it was my old friend Mich.  We hadn’t seen each other in a couple of years or so but had been inseparable in our younger years, pre kids and mostly in the thick of drunken nights out and on silly adventures.


Me: Aww Mich it was an emergency, I was about to run out of petrol, I don’t usually do this.

Mich (laughing, hand over mouth): A likely story. 

And then to the cashier …

Mich: She always does stuff like this

Me to the cashier: No I don’t.

After a super quick exchange of pleasantries  it was arranged that we would have a proper catch up when we both attended a Christmas night out in a few weeks time organised by our mutual friend.

I had nearly completed the mission undetected but had been discovered at the last minute.  A good effort though.  We made it home without breaking down and even made it back to another petrol station on the school run the next morning where we filled up with more than a fiver and was even able to pay for it.  I was smashing it.

A few weeks later my friend and I walked into a crowded pub, both looking a million dollars and headed towards the crowd of chattering women we had arranged to meet for the Christmas frollicks.  I clocked Mich and she clocked me on our approach.

‘’Here she is!’’ She shouted, a broad grin spanning her face.

What a nice hearty welcome I thought.

Everyone was very fussy to see each other and amongst the kisses, cuddles and excited greetings within the first few minutes 2 of the girls had asked me jokingly why I wasn’t wearing crocs and another had complimented me on my choice of dress and expressed their surprise I wasn’t wearing a dressing gown.  It turned out that after our chance meeting that night, mean old Mich had captured the moment that I had scurried back to my car in all my dressing gown glory on her phone and then lovingly posted it on Facebook.  Something I knew nothing about because at that point I wasn’t big on social media so had never joined.

It’s a good job I have a sense of humour and that I learn from my mistakes.  I will never be caught short again inappropriately dressed in a petrol station.

Also, I can confirm that the last part of that statement is not true and honestly I think I will always be the one to be caught short inappropriately dressed and probably not just limited to an Esso station.

Moth Hunt

I’m not usually one to let things get the better of me or get on top of me as I’m fairly laid back as a rule, but this week all I can think about is the mound of spring cleaning and and carpet care I’ve got to do and the fact that now the kids have gone back to school I don’t have a good enough excuse not to do it. 

Just to be clear I’m not talking about the usual spit and a lick I perform daily to give the illusion of cleanliness, I’m talking about tipping the house upside down to empty it, then deep cleaning the crap out of it.

Bit of background … Husband is a clever builder type so 10 years ago we built our own house.  It was hard graft and we lived in an old 80’s static caravan with leaky windows and draughty doors for a couple of years without proper running water or any real home luxuries. ‘Horrendous’ you might think but being in our little temporary home with a baby, a toddler and 2 big dogs for a couple of years while Husband worked late into the night to build us our perfect home was an adventure I wouldn’t have missed out on. Admittedly it wasn’t cheap, but as we had secured the mortgage already to do the work we decided not to skimp, and only to use the best materials, which included pricey carpets. This meant wool berbers everywhere except for the kitchen tiles.

What no one tells you is that if you don’t vigorously vacuum every last inch of a wool carpet on a regular basis (I’m talking dragging out heavy solid wood wardrobes and cabin beds) that you get carpet moths.

‘’Carpet Moths (Trichophaga Tapetzella) are also known as tapestry moths.  Their larvae have a taste for the keratin found in natural fibres and will happily munch their way through wool carpets and silk rugs’’ – Rentokil.

This time last year, a few weeks prior to the first National lock down, we made the gruesome discovery that these bad boys had been lurking in the dark depths that you don’t see on a daily basis.  I know I joke about not cleaning and living in a shit hole because in all honesty I’m not one of life’s born cleaners.  I wish to God I was but I’m one of those that cleans like Holy Hell only to discover that nothing looks any different except for being more smudged.  Having said that the house is usually at an acceptable level of cleanliness and to date no one has ever caught dysentery and died so I thought I was doing okay.

Anyway, at the risk of being dramatic, something I am a little prone to, the whole carpet moth episode freaked me out so much I still don’t like to talk about it.  It gives me tit sweats. I’m lucky enough to love my home, and being cooped up here during lock down hasn’t been a hardship for me in the slightest, so long as it’s just us, the people who actually live here and not any extra wildlife.  When I researched them and found out that they like natural fibres I was a bit miffed because it meant had we opted for cheap carpets we could have been as dirty as we liked with no threat of invasion.  Definitely something I’ll be bearing in mind for next time.

To cut a long, skin crawling story short, we managed to eradicate them in the form of a complete bottoming of the whole house and numerous carpet treatments.  I used sprays, powders and even some industrial strength flea spray because I read they weren’t a fan of that.  The last 3 applications were unnecessary following the first 3 I know but once it was in my mind that we were infested with creepies, I just couldn’t stop.  The tell tale sign that the moths have moved in are little grains of rice in the dark depths of your rooms or under the feet of furniture.  Of course it’s far more sinister than it being actual rice. The tiny little pupa’s masquerading as rice, and what is categorically not rice in any way, are actually moth larvae, baby moths in cocoons that munch their way through your carpets until they are big fat grown up moths and your carpets are thread bare. Moths that have grown from small eggs that have laid hidden, embedded in your carpet.  The carpet your children play on.  As I write this I’m trying not to gag and am doing a sterling job in holding back the vomit. 

The end result is that we are totally free of small mothy squatters but I now make a point of moving ALL furniture and doing a spring clean that would make a crime scene clean up crew proud on a 6 weekly basis.  Homeschooling this time around has been so full on that I’m actually  weeks behind with the bottoming rota and even though I know logically that nothing major will happen in a few weeks , it’s all I can think about.  So with the reopening of schools I now have a child free house and the ability to clean until my heart’s content (or until the fear of rediscovering those little bastards stops running from my body screaming). I don’t want to scare monger, that’s not what this is, but if you have a wool carpet, have you checked under the bed lately?

How Weird is your Family?

Families can be strange.  What might be normal to one troop could be an off the scale cringe fest to others.  

Some are open minded, some are not.  

Some share, some do not.

Some over share to a point were the words ‘What the actual Fuck?’ occasionally tumble from their mouths as they proceed to discuss the rude, weird and unthinkable.  It’s what makes your family unique, and there is no right or wrong way.  In our family we have always encouraged the freedom of speech and discussion on any topic.  I’d hate to think that our children felt too embarrassed to talk about something in front of me or felt they had to hold back.


Husband’s phone rings. It’s his 2 grown up daughters.  I can hear raucous laughter drifting out of his phone and I can see the awkward look on his face.

Him: What are you talking about? Well I don’t know?  What a ridiculous question …well sat down I suppose.

3.5 seconds later my phone rings.  I am quizzed in much the same manor, the only difference is I absolutely love it.

Me: Sat down but tipping slightly forward, there’s no other way to do it properly … No! They surely can’t? How do they get a good angel?  No, it’s not weird.  Okay, it’s a bit weird but I like it.  See you soon.  Byyyyeeee.

Let me shed some light on this bizarre exchange.  It appears our opinions were urgently needed due to a debate that was going on between my twenty something step daughters and their respective boyfriends about whether you sit down or stand up to wipe after a poo.  Much to their disgust their boyfriends had admitted to being stand up wipers.

There is no line.  If there ever has been, it was crossed long ago but would I want it any other way?

What sort of family do you belong to?

Is it a civilised affair where people mind their manors, keep their noses clean and under no circumstances discuss the inappropriate topic of such things as toilet habits?  Or alternatively do your grown up children ring you of an evening amongst fits of hysterical laughter to enquire about which toilet positions you practice?

I think from this very statement alone it is perfectly clear to see which category we fall into.  And honestly, I definitely wouldn’t change a thing.

5 FFS Moments

1. When you are laden with shopping bags, sweating your tits off and running like crap to catch your bus. You know you have precisely 17 seconds before it leaves the bay in the central bus station and it is always as prompt as a shit after a vodka.  There’s no one in the queue and the automatic sliding door is open.  You hurl yourself towards it hoping if you misjudge this leap of faith that the sensors will kick in.

They don’t. 

The door closes and you’re just not quick enough to get through.  The bus leaves the bay at a leisurely pace, the bus driver smiles at you as you are left stuck fast and flapping around trying to break free. You accept your fate and wait patiently for a bus station employee to find you and release you.

2.Throwback to the early 2000’s (Yes I’m THAT old) – You are debuting your new low slung, midriff showing, ultra baggy combats with hundreds of pockets and dangly bits, Kylie Minogue esc circa 2001 style.  Your shoes are the pointiest pair of ankle strapped stilettos the world has ever seen.  You are cool as Fuck.  Crossing the dance floor booming out your favourite song suddenly your pointiness gets caught in your bagginess and in the blink of an eye you are laid fully out, face down amongst the good time girls and party people. The worst part is you are so embarrassed that you continue to lay there.  Unsure of your own logic surrounding this decision after a whole 2 or 3 minutes you have no other choice but to get up.  By this time you realise a circle of approximately 20 to 30 people has surrounded you, possibly checking you are not dead.

3.You need the toilet for a number two.  You are downstairs alone in your house.  You don’t completely shut the door properly because after all you are completely alone in your house.  Your dog who suffers from separation anxiety and cannot even let you have a turd in privacy is there with you. You are getting down to business and are unable to move.  Your dog chooses this exact moment to recover from his anxiety, push open the cracked door and bolt out leaving the door fully open and out of your reach.  It is unfortunate to say the least that your downstairs toilet is situated directly in front of the main door of your house which is flanked by two large floor length windows.  Timing impeccable, the postman is outside on the porch just about to knock on the door attempting I assume a parcel delivery.  Our eyes meet through the glass and I want to die. I then realise it is the same poor man that disturbed my topless sunbathing the week before. I have never seen this postie again and can only assume he left his job and had a breakdown. I will gladly pay for his counselling.

4.You have jobs to do on your lunch break.  Today you only have 30 minutes.  There is no time for food, only errands.  Your tummy is growling and becoming full of air due to lack of sustenance.  You leave your place of work and hurry across the pedestrianised street to the bank. Fully out in the open you realise a pump is going to come out but it feels like a quiet one.  One of those that is full of air only.  One you can disguise in public.  You make a decision.  It is the wrong one.  An almighty fart leaves your cheeks and sounds as though someone has just let go of a balloon.  You try to disguise it as a high heeled shoe scrape across the pavement.  You are fooling no one.

5.When your daughter asks for a pet rabbit and you agree knowing full well you will have to be vigilant because you have a big dog that is partial to eating small furries.  You take all the necessary precautions. A chain for the dog (a small linked flimsy one, not the mean kind) for when he is outside unattended, a metal run for the rabbit, and a plan to keep them in separate gardens at all times. You realise both pets have been outside in their respective gardens in their respective runs, chains etc for 30 minutes without supervision so you go and check all is well. 

 All is not well.

The flimsy chain now dangles alone without a dog on it and the rabbit run is now completely flat with no rabbit in it.  You survey the area to be greeted with a horrifying scene.  The dog is under the trampoline, face covered in blood, looking particularly pleased with himself, standing next to a rabbits body that now has no head. 

You try and explain to your 7 year old that the rabbit had a sudden illness during the night and went to heaven.  You have a funeral for the rabbit that you cleverly concealed in a shoe box but, lately your 5 year old has had an unhealthy obsession with all things dead  and you worry that as soon as your back is turned he will dig it up (mainly because at the funeral that’s exactly what he said he would do)

These are a small selection of my vast collection of awkward moments I have experienced and wanted to share these in the spirit of National Awkward Moments Day which is today Thursday 18th March 2021.

You’ve got to laugh … It’s better than crying.

Proudest Moment- Bringing Life into the World and not dying.

This post is part of the #writingchallenge set by @mytalesfromthecrib. You can find her on Instagram

Revisit your list of ‘30 reasons why I am amazing’. Choose the one that surprises you and that you are most proud of. Elaborate.

1.I birthed both my babies naturally and never died.

This is the one I am most proud of and is probably the one that surprised me the most. The 16 year old me anyway. Believe it or not when I was growing up I was shy. As a child and all the way through my teenage years until I was about 16 I felt constant embarrassment, couldn’t look anyone in the face and wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

The college I chose to attend after high school was a different one to most of my class and was at the other side of town. For me this was a golden opportunity to be whoever I wanted, without questions or the judgemental gaze from my peers who I had been wary of for the whole of my school life. Having the freedom to be myself around strangers I found so liberating. To my surprise not only did people not mind it but they actually seemed to like it. The familiar feelings of being scared and unsure of absolutely everything ebbed away and were replaced with acceptance and popularity, things I’d never really experienced before on a social level. I’m now 40, and since then with each subsequent year of my life that has passed I have become more confident, stronger and fierce. Piggy backing on this came the realisation that the initial gratitude for acceptance I felt was no longer needed. So in other words, these days I adopt the ‘love me or hate me, this is me’ approach without much real concern as to which one is picked.

When I was pregnant I didn’t discuss my birthing plan with Husband or even myself I suppose. I just assumed with gritty determination right from the beginning that I would have a natural birth without drugs at a women’s midwife led birthing unit. I’m not sure exactly why I decided this, but there was never any doubt that this was what would happen with no consideration for other options. I knew it wouldn’t be a walk in the park and I wanted to keep a clear head so I could be present at all the crucial points without worrying about having any adverse reactions to the drugs I might be given. Basically if there is any chance at all that throwing up might occur whether it’s from being poorly, too many vodkas or pain relief when in labour it will definitely happen to me because I’m just one of those unfortunate sicky sorts.

Looking back now I can see that I wanted to be in control of my own journey into parenthood and taking the reins on this without a thought for anything else was maybe part of taking back the power I’d never had so early on in my life.

Birthing a child is one of those things that you do because it is necessary. After all at 9 months pregnant, how else is it getting out? It’s not something you would choose to do on a Sunday afternoon for fun and I’m not going to lie, it feels like a lorry has driven out of your vagina but my attitude was that it was a job that needed doing so I had better buckle down and get cracking. Both times I gave birth I was blessed with quick labours, healthy babies and living to tell the tale which left me with an enormous sense of empowerment. In fact I’d go as far as to say that both of my birthing experiences have had a huge influence on shaping me into the strong woman I am today. I brought life into the world and I didn’t die, even though at times it definitely felt like I might.

Self Care

Self care in my opinion is linked closely with self love.  When we learn to be able to love ourselves, which can be a long frightening journey, it then becomes possible to recognise that we too deserve to be looked after in whichever way we choose at that time and it’s not just the children, the Husband, the house, your job or your friends , to name a few that deserve your undivided attention.

Self care is different for everyone. It’s not always the same thing for me either.  I’m a complex creature, sometimes all I want is to binge my favourite Netflix series whilst systematically demolishing a whole iced birthday cake to myself, wearing a smelly old pair of leggings that haven’t left my body for a week. Other days I might do a fitness video followed by a shower, shave and preening session ending in a face mask, full body moisturisation and fake tan.  Okay the latter is a rare occurence and anyone who knows me is probably laughing at the absurdity of it and shouting ‘’Fuck Off you’ve never done that’’ but I’m here to admit I have.  If running 10 miles a day and feasting on a bowl of lettuce is your thing then dive in.  You might prefer to spend 2 hours in a bubble bath? Or a night on the tiles with your friends and a litre of vodka?  Because it’s not always about physical health. It all depends what you need at that given time for your own mental health, sanity even.  

Lets all remember it this way …

We are very important people

We are worthy of whatever our little heart’s desire

We deserve to feel good

Feeling that we have so much in our lives to look after and be responsible for is a heavy cross to bear and can inadvertently trick us into assuming we can just keep going and going and going, without a break or a rest or any help but we can’t.  In order to do everything in our lives to the best of our ability we need to look after ourselves now and again. So drop that guilt that you’re holding for even considering doing something for yourself and go on that jog, run that bubble bath or tuck into that birthday cake without apology.  You deserve it.

This post is part of the #writingchallenge as set by the amazing @mytalesfromthecrib. You can find her on Instagram.

Letting Go

Letting go of something or someone that no longer serves you is hard.  In fact it’s Fucking hard.  And emotional.  And honestly there’s no fancy way to gift wrap it, it’s just plain crap.  Sometimes the head and the heart don’t agree with each other and this can cause turmoil, but once you have accepted that this will be your fate you must pursue your new path.

Sometimes it’s not as dramatic as this.

Sometimes it’s not life changing, sometimes it might be as simple and straight forward as letting go of your biscuit habit or letting go of your bad mood. Whatever the level of release needed, I find belting out the infamous song ‘Let it go’ by Idina Menzel as loud as my lungs will allow in my car not only gives me goosebumps and makes me hold my head a little higher but also truly makes me believe I really can ‘rise like the break of dawn’.

This isn’t just for a blog post.  I actually do this on a regular basis, at least a couple of times a week, usually on my way to work.  It’s just so empowering.  Now I’m not saying that listening to a Disney song will make right all the wrongs in the world but it will give you some strength. How can words like these not inspire?  Especially when applied to your own life and situation.

It’s time to see what i can do,

To test the limits and break through,

No right, no wrong, no rules for me,


Let it go

And that all important line …

‘The cold never bothered me anyway’  … Basic translation – So Fuck you.

This post is part of the #writing challenge set by the lovely @mytalesfromthecrib you can find her on Instagram