Excess-Material Girl

Clothes shopping. I'd call it a necessary evil but I do actually find some enjoyment in it, so I'd say I have a love/hate relationship with it. Finding the perfect top/skirt/dress etc, is a difficult mission, but when you find it it's a particularly special moment, one that has the power to put you in a great mood for the rest of the day. I have two big weaknesses; one being food, the other being money-spending. I can barely go a day without spending something, anything. Anything at all. From a Mars bar at the vending machine to a scratch card at the Coop kiosk, I don't feel complete until I've made a transaction at some point during my day. I swear to God I once had a minor panic attack when I realised I'd come home from work minus a carrier bag. I had to run across the road to buy a Wham! bar. Some people are addicted to alcohol, some people are addicted to drugs. My drug is spending. Years ago when I lived in Wales I struggled financially and, consequently, emotionally, as unemployment was high and everybody around me was Welsh. I couldn't shop. I could barely afford bread. It was a depressing time, in more ways than one. I learnt to be very frugal, so once I'd moved back to England and found my feet again I had developed a sensible approach to budgeting and spending. But once I realised I had money left over at the end of the month again my shopping addiction was reinstated and I was back to my normal self again; broke and happy instead of broke and miserable.

Now I've moved in with Darren I'm more careful with my spending. Sort of. The temptation to spend never leaves me. At lunchtimes now I have to go sit down by the harbour and lose myself in a book, or dream about which boat I'm going to buy with all the money I don't have because I can't stop buying Mars bars and scratch cards. (On a separate note, did you ever notice how boat-owners look nothing like you imagine them to look like? I see a huge sparkling white boat and expect Leo DiCaprio or Betty Grable lookalikes to come striding down the jetty. In reality it's more like Leo Sayer and Betty from Coronation Street. Anyway, I digress....). I have responsibilities now; we have a future wedding and a house of our own to think about. I've always wanted to own my home rather than rent, I had ideas of what the décor would look like since I was a kid. But evidently the dream home was always crushed by my burning desire to have matching shoes and bags. I deeply regret this now, but what's done is done. I've finally found a job I enjoy and I have an opportunity to get saving. I also finally have a partner who's pretty good with money, so we're able to work together at saving. Plus I'm quite good at hiding receipts.

The reason why clothes shopping is a love/hate thing is because of my weight. My weight is up and down more than a schizophrenic off their meds. Although lately I've found my weight is staying very much up. I love food and I hate exercise. I'm in a no-win situation. My biggest bug bear is my stomach. I can't lose it no matter what I do. I'm currently on a bit of a health kick, so watch this space, but for many years I have had issues finding the right size clothing because of my belly. I float between sizes 14 and 16, but I'm now starting to creep into an 18 in certain shops. I once had to do a photo-shoot and the fashion lady told me I was definitely a size 12. I insisted that I was, at the time, a size 14. But she insisted I squeeze into a 12. I came out of the dressing room and was greeted by a smug smile. That smile wasn't so smug when she noticed after the shoot that I'd broken the zip trying to get it done up. It fitted me ok as long as I didn't move. Or breathe. Why am I different sizes in different shops?? It's incredibly annoying. It's even harder trying to buy clothes online. I don't even bother looking at trousers online. I wonder sometimes if certain clothing manufacturers hire blind people in their factory, to make their equal rights statistics look good. Trousers are either too tight around the belly and fit ok in the leg, or fit fine around the belly but have a huge excess of material around the legs - making you look as if your hips are bigger than they are, or giving you a saggy crotch that looks as if you're hiding an extra appendage. My biggest dread is having to buy jeans. They are the bane of my life. I fucking hate low-rise jeans - why on earth would you want the world to see your butt crack every time you crouch down? I don't own a comfortable pair of jeans at the moment, but I'm hoping that changes when I lose the belly fat. I can never wear a pair of jeans if I'm going somewhere that involves sitting down. I feel as if I'm being garrotted. The last time I made that mistake I honestly thought I was going to cough up my spleen. Then there are shops like Miss Selfridge and Topshop, who only now seem to cater for tarty students and hipsters. Ask a sales assistant for a size 18 and they look at you as if you've just admitted to window-licking. You may as well just ask - Do you have this in a size "might-as-well-be-wearing-a-fucking-tent"? It's embarrassing. It's bad enough to be in a dressing room full of walking bags-of-bones moaning about how "fat" they are. Oh forget it, I'll go see if Go Outdoors has a sale on.

Fashion "experts" say "wear a big statement belt and it'll disguise a big tum". No you twat, it doesn't. It looks like a big fucking tum with a big fucking belt accentuating the fact that you need a big fucking belt to hide the big fucking tum!! I tried it; I look like Tweedle-Dee. There is practically nothing you can do to hide a fat belly. Wear loose clothing and you look like an overweight person trying to hide fat. Wear black and you look like an overweight person wearing black. You can buy all the "tummy control" underwear in the world, but don't you realise the fat has to go somewhere..? It doesn't just disappear into space; the underwear just pushes the fat from one place to another! I tried wearing a pair of those control pants a few years ago and it looked as if I had a spare third boob underneath my cleavage.

When you finally manage to find an outfit that you actually feel good in you feel like you could conquer the world. Just you and your black halterneck jumpsuit with zebra-print belt. The feeling of spending money on something fabulous is exhilarating. I love walking through the city armed with shopping bags full of exciting things that I'll want to wear all in one go, as soon as possible. It's just those nagging things that make it soul-less, like bored 17 year old sales assistants who chew gum with their mouth open and can't look you in the eye when they serve you, or weight issues making clothes shopping an often traumatising experience. At the moment I'm sticking with DVDs and shoes, they're more forgiving.

I may not have any life savings, but I'm incredibly proud to say I have a pair of shoes to match every outfit!

Roll Up Roll Up

Bra removal. Probably the most satisfying part of a working woman's day. It's a feeling akin to stepping into a warm Bath after a long day on your feet, or getting out of a hot car at the seaside and feeling the seabreeze on your face. It's right up there with peeing after a long wait for the toilet, and that first bacon sandwich after a month of dieting. Bras are evil. A necessary evil. Nobody likes saggy tits.

When I buy a sexy bra I imagine it's going to make me look like a Victoria's Secret model. I'll put on that red satin deep plunge D-cup beauty and become instantly 2 stone slimmer. In reality I look like a sack of Maris Pipers, wearing pretty underwear. All the same, I know the right bra to make my cleavage look awesome. I'm fairly well-endowed so I've no real need for a booster bra. But then again, that's like saying a woman with nice hair has no need for a brush; you're blessed with a great asset but who's to say you can't make that asset even better. A booster bra is like makeup, it's an enhancement worn to make yourself feel good. Going out to a busy cocktail bar? Want to get served quick? Get yourself a boost! I know feminists everywhere would be a throwing their hairy armpits up in the air and declaring me a embarrassment to women, but at least I'll be an embarrassment with a nice cold drink. Of course at the opposite end of the scale, having people talking to your tits can become a little tiresome. When you have big norks it happens whether you show the cleavage or not. Jeered if you do, Jeered if you don't.

I wonder if that amazing feeling of setting the puppies free would be as amazing if I were a teeny size 8 frame..? Any woman of, how should I put this. ..cuddly, frame, will know that under-wired bras are the most uncomfortable items when you have a belly like Winnie the Pooh. I have more rolls than a Greggs delivery van. My stomach is more cheese board than washboard. Yet still, I can't stop bloody eating. Do I want to look gorgeous in my new Ann Summers bra? Of course I do. Do I want to sit down at my desk and not look like a pile of spare tyres? O for course. But I'll tell you what I also love; food. Damn food. Damn Walkers crisps and Snickers. Why can't salad taste as good as egg fried rice? I want to look good. I want to feel good and not hate myself every time I accidentally make myself a bacon and egg sandwich. As much as I love that bra releasing feeling, I'd rather stick to the warm bath and seabreeze and look like Winnie the Whoo. ..not Winnie the Pooh. I believe a diet and exercise regime is in order. Watch this space! If you're lucky, I'll show you my new bra. Minus the cheeseboard.

Sandy and Settled

I love living near the seaside. I'm lucky really because, man...have I lived in some shitty towns. The less said about Neath in Wales the better; I've never seen so many Red Stripe drinking chavs on benefits in one single town. Walthamstow, Romford, Ipshit...I mean Ipswich, Norwich. All have their own character and I do have some lovely memories, but they don't come close to the luxury of living in the countryside with the beach just a ten minute drive away. It's relative peace compared to living in Norwich and Ipswich, and definitely more laid-back than East London and Essex. I have found that over the years I've become less "towny" and more "greeney". I want to look out of my window at 10pm on a summer evening and see green fields and trees, pretty flowers, wildlife etc - not some bloke in fake Prada puking up my Begonias, or a "Wag" wannabe in gold lame screaming at her boyfriend/pimp for not holding her shoes. When I was younger I bawked at the idea of moving somewhere more than 3 yards away from a shop. I found the nightlife about as exciting as pottery. I cried out in despair "What do you mean the clubs close at 1am"??? Upon watching the local news I found it hilarious that the breaking news of the day was that an old lady lost her handbag in Tesco and somebody found it and gave it back to her. If we were still living in Walthamstow it wouldn't even be considered newsworthy if the old lady had it stolen and was punched in the face. It would be a way of life. Now I'm older and I long for news stories to be lost handbags, rather than the depressing stuff we have to hear about. I would also prefer a hot chocolate and duvet/film night over a night out clubbing, any day! Of course I enjoy going out and having the odd cocktail or three or ten, but at the end of the evening I'm dying for a cup of tea and a change out of my heels to my slippers. Netflix and chill eh?

Lowestoft beach is something I took for granted, I realised this when I moved to the boil on the arse of England that is Neath. All the time I'd lived in Lowestoft before I moved to Wales and I was surprised by how little time I'd spent appreciating the beautiful beach. I now live in the countryside and a little further away from the beach, but still within a nice driving distance, and that's where I spent my afternoon today with Darren and his son. I will say, as much as I lament, seaside towns have their drawbacks. Namely; tourists. Every single car park through July and August is bloody rammed. They all walk around, glassy-eyed and mouth-breathing, wearing clothes far too inappropriate for their body shape and sporting a shiny shade of pink across their whole body. They spend twenty minutes deciding which ice-cream flavour to buy and spend even longer  telling their fifteen children to stop chucking chips at the seagulls. Fuck off back home, towny wankers.

Lowestoft beach itself is pretty nice compared to most. Although I do remember it being much sandier when we first moved to this town. There are so much more stones! You want to venture into the sea for a dip, you don't want to soak your shoes, so you remove your shoes before tiptoeing gingerly across the shingle. Each little pebble feels like it's slicing it's way into your soul, getting seemingly sharper with each step. You are aware that you look like you've shit your pants, the look on your face is that of a person who feels like they've shit their pants, and your feet are screaming out for Savlon. You finally reach the sea after what seems like the longest walk ever, and you spot a brat peeing into the waves. Back through the walk of pain again. Why is there always some little gobshite chucking sand around you when you're trying to sunbathe? Or some twat with a football? There could be nobody else on the beach, not one single soul, and this twat will somehow manage to get the ball to land right on your face. You are not David Beckham; you are a wanker. Go find a football pitch and practise your poor skills there! Frisbees make me nervous. Especially when kids throw them. Kids throw like 'tards. I think as a general rule footballs and Frisbees should be banned from beaches. Kids should have a special section of the beach where they can't bother the sunbathers, who don't want to be covered in sand and dripping ice-creams. I have the over-whelming urge to stamp over their sandcastles. Seagulls are another obstacle. Those beady-eyed little tossers watching your every move and sizing up your ice-cream/chips/doughnut. I witnessed one actually dive-bombing a chip-eating tourist once. Although admittedly I did find that rather amusing. If they're not bullying you like a gang of thugs they're emptying their bowels down your nice beachwear. Cunts. There's no other word for them.

Despite my issues with beach life I still prefer it to concrete, Red Stripe and rising crime rate. It's worth the sore, sandy, clammy skin and knotted hair. All these hours later, even after a shower, I'm still finding sand in my scalp and ear. You could probably build a sandcastle with the amount of sand that came away from me in the shower. I'd probably knock it down though.

Don't Stand So Close To Me

I have a dirty stinking cold virus. Cue "Awwwwww's please. It's mid-November and I'm supposed to be getting unreasonably excited about Christmas and musing over when to put my decorations up! Instead I'm soldiering through packets of cold & flu tablets, getting no sleep whatsoever and keeping Kleenex in enough business to last through till at least next Christmas.

I guess I'm a bit similar to a man when it comes to illness; I don't handle it very well and I feel extremely sorry for myself. There are at least three neccessaties in my life when I'm ill; 1. Mum, and any other slaves available at the time, 2. Sympathy, 3.Werthers Originals. My taste buds watch in horror as those bacteria particles jump into my mouth, and so sound the alarm in my brain to stock up on sucky sweets. After the helplessness comes the bitterness. I want to hunt down the person who infected me, in the same nature as Arnie going after Predator in the jungle, and sneeze into their mouth. I think this is a completely suitable form of revenge; you breathe in my direction with your dirty germ breath and you may as well just sneeze in my mouth. Tit for tat!

When people develop a cold or throat virus we should instantly alert environmental health and have the sick person quarantined in an isolated location, like say - the moon, far away from healthy people. At the very least we should have our Managers whipped and humiliated in public for allowing sick people into work to spread their filth! Last night I sneezed so much I feared my head would crack like a walnut. I think the family of bacteria nesting inside my immune system were playing a cruel prank on me. Every time they sensed my head lying down on the pillow they gave the signal to ignite a violent sneeze. Bastards. Oh well, who needs sleep anyway? It just gives me more time to catch up on late night trash tv, which becomes all the more interesting when you're drugged up on paracetamol and phenylephrine.

My taste buds always seem to take a hike when I have a cold. The only thing that tastes vaguely normal is black coffee. I've drunk so much coffee this week I swear if you cut me I'll bleed Millicano. In fact, I should really get them to sponsor my blog. On the plus side having a cold is a great excuse to stay in my pyjamas, eat junk and watch films all day. I just hope I manage to give it to someone else outside of this house in time for Christmas, I was ill last year so another germ-filled Christmas would be totally unfair. I have a pub, eggnog, and 500 tins of Celebrations with my name on them. Yesterday I spent all afternoon in bed feeling sorry for myself. I looked like a bitter, depressed, red-nosed Miss Haversham, surrounded by empty sweet packets and empty cups of Millicano (sponsor me dammit!!!).

Still, on the bright side of things I could always fill in for Rudolph if he fancies a year off. Father Christmas can rely on me! Just as long as the fat bastard keeps away from my Werthers originals.

Adventures of the Bored Shitless

The other night I was trying to think about something exciting I'd done recently and was a tad annoyed when I couldn't think of a single thing. I've said this a million times before, but I really need to get my butt in gear and start doing some outrageous activities so that I don't end up being one of those old biddies who talk about nothing but the weather. When I'm old children will cower, not just because I dislike them and will send my evil cats after them, but because they'll be terrified I'll corner them and regal them with another boring story about the time I got excited because M & S had a 50% sale on their gourmet microwave meals for one. It'll be like that film, Airplane, where every time Robert Hays tries to tell his life story to the passengers they kill themselves one by one (apologies if I've just spoiled the storyline for you, but quite frankly...you should've watched it by now; it's a classic). 

I've had some fabulous holidays in Canada, Spain, Italy, Cyprus, and various locations in the UK (although strictly speaking I don't really count my own country as a holiday, more of a I can't afford a decent fucking holiday abroad, kinda trip). I've also done a few cool things; if you take away the vertigo and projectile vomiting in the car home, followed by a raging headache; the skydive in 2002 was pretty epic. I raised £500 for the MS charity and Dyspraxia Foundation, so I can tick "do something worthwhile for charity" off my bucket list. I've met every comedian I've been to see, thankfully none of them were arrogant assholes. After I shook Lee Evans hand I vowed not to wash my hand ever again, but that dude is just so damn sweaty.

I've met shit people and I've met great people, I've also had some great times with great friends (is that too much over-use of the word great?) but I always feel like something's missing. I've never understood why some people have no other goal than to get married, have kids, give up work. That, to me, is just like saying "I give up". Maybe I'm being harsh, I just don't know why someone would want to limit themselves to possibilities. It's bad enough I can't get to auditions and theatre plays because of work, if I had kids I'd be limited outside of work too. I envy people who are easily satisfied. 

I spent a day at the amusement arcades with Emma a few weeks back and it was such a good laugh. I spent about a tenner just to win four Simpsons key rings but I love the thrill of winning, regardless of the quality of the prize. When they fell into that little tray I felt like I'd conquered the world. At one point I'd run out of two pences, so I had to run...run... to the change machine to get more. I kept looking back to make sure nobody had jumped in my spot; I was more than prepared to smackdown anybody brave enough to swoop in and win Marge Simpson....who I'd left teetering on the edge. After the arcades we had a laugh at the penis-shaped sweet rocks and marshmallow boobies - as one does on a trip to the seaside and went home marvelling at the junk we'd won that day, not even caring that we'd probably dropped fifty quid between us on shit we'll put in the junk sale the same time next year. These are the days of our lives! 

Whilst I want to continue these good times with my friends, I also want to broaden my horizons too. I think I've been in Norfolk too long, I've become glued down to one place looking no further than my own town for things to do. Work sucks me dry Monday to Friday, so I need to utilise this precious thing called; weekend. I'm slowly working through my bucket list, but I'm going to add to it now. I want to share exciting stories with my niece (when she's old enough not to allow her mind to be warped), and have her admire me for all the amazing things I've done. When I die, I'm having engraved on my headstone; "She stopped being boring with plenty of time to spare". I also want to make sure I'm buried with Homer, Marge, Lisa and Maggie; those suckers cost me over a tenner, and half hour of my time, I'll be buggered if I leave them behind.

Happy Geek

I worry from time to time that I'm too old to be a comic book nerd. I'm thirty one years old and I have an Avengers phone case and pencil case (I don't even own pencils), a glossy print of Robert Downey Jr as Iron Man (swoon!), an Avengers window sticker and lots of Marvel comics. Oh and I may have several t-shirts. Ten years ago I'd pee with laughter at the thought of being such a nerd, but nowadays I pee with excitement at the thought of being such a nerd. I get butterflies when I see trailers for Marvel movies. The fact that all the guys in the Avengers team are completely humptastic is, of course, nothing to do with it *ahem*.

I reckon that, subconsciously, part of the attraction is the fantasy of men who can protect and save whilst staying honourable. Captain America; strong, true-hearted, brave, respectful towards women and jolly good-mannered! You'd definitely take ole Cap to meet your mum. Then you have Tony Stark; great looking (it's R.D.J, I'm biased!), richer than Midas, funny, brave. Ok, so he's a bit arrogant, but who wouldn't be when you've got skills like that?? Thor, or should I say "Phwoar"! Well....need I say more? (I didn't actually intend for that rhyme to happen, I'm quite impressed). Basically, it's every quality we find an extreme rarity in real life.

Outside of the films and into the comics you have an array of talent, with plenty of bad boys for all you women who like to pick the wrong types! I'm busting to get to Comic-Con if only just to get amongst fellow nerds in their Marvel costumes! God, the thought of Comic-Con actually made me smile, I definitely just hit the nerd alert button. 

It certainly makes me smile when I think of how I used to mock the spotty little nerds at school. I never entertained the thought of dating them, I never entertained the thought of being so "sad" as to spend my nights chatting about comic books. If any of them knew me now I would definitely get a few raised eyebrows and smug looks. Plus I bet they're almost as hot as Tony Stark and Steve Rogers nowadays. Damn.

I've thought many times about what my special power would be if I were a superhero. Don't judge me; I bet you've all done the same! I keep changing my mind. Sometimes I think invisibility would be the coolest power to have, I don't need to explain to you why (where did you say Michael Bublés dressing room was again...?). But then I think telekinetic powers would be pretty awesome too. Coincidently, you know you're becoming a geek when you use the word awesome. To move things around with my mind and see the shock and confusion on peoples faces would be hilarious. But that wouldn't make me a proper superhero, that'd make me a nuisance. To have the super-fit skills of Natasha Romanoff, the precision shooting skills of Hawkeye, the power to heal like the Scarlet Witch, to be able to fly like Iron Man, telepathic/telekinetic powers of Jean Grey; I'd have a whole series of comics dedicated especially for me! It's a whole world of fantasy that's a whole world better than the day to day trivial matters we deal with on a daily basis. Escapism; never underestimate it.

I may be a nerd now, but I'm pretty sure I was cool once. Then again, who's to say what's cool and what's not? I think multi-millionaire Stan Lee is the answer to that question.

Summer Holiday: RIP

Oh dear. Back in the UK again. I try not to complain too much about this country (I mean the actual UK itself,not the weirdos and chavs and politicians who roam it. I've plenty to complain about those) but when you enter into 8 degrees after flying away from 32 degrees, it kind of puts things into an obvious perspective. Our weather is shit. When we landed in Gatwick the cold was almost unbearable. Anybody would think I'd been living in Cyprus for years, but after a mere seven days I had already become acclimatised to the heat, so getting out of the plane at Gatwick felt like walking into someone's Smeg. With the icebox on overload. Since I've been home the sun has come out a few times but it's still too cold to sunbathe. Instead, I've been sunbathing on my lounge carpet where the sun shines through the window. Desperate measures. I make myself an ice cold daiquiri and pretend I'm back in Cyprus. Just without the blue sky, azure sea, white sand, gorgeous waiters, pool, great food, etc. 

The wedding was fabulous. The bridesmaid was amazing *ahem*. All the wedding guests were lovely and there were no fights! (a little disappointing). I'm not into public displays of emotion (from myself. Other than rage of course) but even I had a few tears in my eyes. Probably the sun shining in them...*cough*. Getting the bride into her dress (how many fucking eyelet holes does one dress need???? God dang fiddly ribbon!) and walking down a fuckload of stone steps in heels were the only two hairy moments. I had a little trouble getting the dress done up and, even though she didn't say so, I could sense Sarah starting to stress. The steam coming out of her ears was a subtle sign. Going down the huge steps I heard Sarah whisper; "Are you ok Leigh Anne"? All I could muster was; "Mmhmmm", as I tried desperately not to arse over my dress train. I've not concentrated that much since school! Ha! Who am I kidding; as if I ever concentrated at school!

My only issue with the holiday was our hotel charging for wifi use. Charging!!! Oh if only I'd known some Greek swear words. It took me five days to learn to say Hello, and that was just in English. Kidding. It's sad when you reach a stage where you're in a beautiful country with lots of things to do and lots of cocktails to drink, but the most important thing is finding somewhere with free wifi. Each time we found a place with free wifi I felt as if I'd found an air bubble after having trouble breathing. Such a sad turn of events. But, all was fabulous! Sarah and Kirk are married and happy, and I didn't fuck up in my role of Bridesmaid. I didn't even get burnt! I rejected Stavros the waiters offer of a "stroll" along the beach. I didn't hire a quad bike and crash into a restaurant. Nor did I get seriously drunk and puke outside a kebab shop. In fact I think it's best I go back and try again! After all, I am a perfectionist. 

Kalimera Stavros....!