So our oven is broken… Also a tribute to potatoes.

So last week, midway through cooking some healthy cheesy potatoes dauphenoise (is that how you spell it? maybe…) complete with extra cream and extra cheese for extra health, our oven in the flat just turned off. Potentially a sign from the gods that I shouldn’t be eating potato based cheesy goods? Admittedly yes I shouldn’t but potatoes, cheese and cream are like the holy trinity of things that are good in the world. But anyway yes the oven is broken and wont be fixed until next weekend at the EARLIEST! (Downside of living with your landlord, I have to be nice and accommodating and lovely at all times for fear of being evicted “yes two weeks without a hot meal is fine, in this cold cold November what I really wanted was a refreshing salad for dinner…every night”).

Okay, it’s not quite that bad because the hob still works so I can just fry everything I want to eat (potato circles?). Or boil it (potatoes?) or indeed use my microwave (micro chips…made of potatoes). Can we just take a minute here to appreciate potatoes and how great they are? You can roast them- well I can’t because my oven is dead, you can bake them (again, not me), you can boil them, mash them, cut them up and fry them, make chips, make crisps if you can be arsed which frankly I can’t, MAKE VODKA (again, effort), you can even make bread with them and make paint stamps for arty patterns- seriously did anyone do this in school because it was great! The possibilities with a potato know no bounds! And don’t even get me started on sweet potatoes…you can make brownies out of them! And here’s a fun fact- they’re not actually that bad for you! YES! POTATO LOVERS UNITE AND REJOICE! A medium potato is basically fat free and only has 161 calories in it, okay yes its got 37g of carbs in it but they’re complex carbs (I don’t really understand that term but I think it means carbs that you don’t need to berate yourself for eating! woo!) and it has hella vitamins and minerals! Obviously it all depends on how you cook them but this website www.potatogoodness.com/ has all the potato knowledge you’ll ever need to impress your friends and co-workers!

Potato Lovers Unite!

Okay so a bit of a tangent but I thought it was important to share that, however I now realise that today I’ve written more words about potatoes than I have on my dissertation topic…which in case you were wondering is about different perceptions of men and women in marketing campaigns, so like do people respond better to aspirational images of their gender (like athletic people used to advertise running shoes), or something they can relate to because it uses more “normal” people (for example the Dove real beauty campaign?) If anyone fancies throwing their two cents in on this idea then please do, I need all the opinions I can get!

Right, I should probably get back to writing that… but not until after I’ve had a packet of crisps to curb my potato craving!

In Blog We Trust

I must confess I haven’t been the most dedicated blogger recently, and for that Dear Reader I ask your forgiveness. After all with only 45 days until Christmas could it be in the spirit of goodwill to all men that you give me a second chance?

Speaking of spirits I have some good news to share, having just completed Sober October I have managed to raise £410 for Macmillan Cancer Care and have managed to lose a whopping 11 of my own (pounds of flab that is, not money)! Mind you some of this may be down to the fact that I’ve been ill with a chest infection so haven’t been stuffing my face quite as much. There’s always something so bittersweet about having the lurgy, I find myself lying in bed thinking well my throat is killing me and these bodily fluids are a questionable colour but I’m probably losing a few pounds!

So my new found waistline and I took ourselves to the shops to buy a dress for the much anticipated Cankled-Matriarch’s (that’s mother dearest to those of you who’ve forgotten) Christmas Party. I don’t use the term much anticipated lightly Dear Reader, this party always presents some sort of fun- be it the time my Grandmother poured her drink all over my Grandad every time she turned the page in her carol book, or the time one of my friends was passed out drunkenly upstairs only to be visited by one of our teachers at the time who had come upstairs to try on hats, or indeed the time a poor drunken soul poured his heart out about his unrequited love to an unsuspecting guest only to find out the guest was the girl in question’s mother! Although I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite as hysterical as my own Father crawl into the dogs bed with the dog, Jack, and pretend the dog was singing Mack The Knife but, because my dad is the king of wit, he sang Jack The Knife. But yes! Back to the dress, I don’t have a photo of it because when I tried it on it looked good but not great- a pretty expensive incentive to lose weight- so there’s still work to be done over the next 40 days, and all whilst going to two other Christmas parties!

In an attempt to help myself along I have once again purchased a gym membership (deja vu, anyone?), and thus far have gone once. For my induction. Personally I’m quite impressed I even turned up for that, perhaps I’ll go back once my chest has cleared, perhaps not. As well as this, and believe me I’m not proud of this, I have started calorie counting. I used to mock calorie counters, a friend once asked me how many calories are in a creme egg and frankly if you’re that concerned about your figure (not that she needed to be) then you shouldn’t be eating creme eggs in the first place. But hell, even if it isn’t making the slightest bit of difference at least I have all my scribbles to prove I tried! And if all else fails there’s always Spanx!

Long time no sleep… Also a bit about nudes.

I’d love to tell you that I haven’t slept properly because I’ve been on a week long love tryst and haven’t left my bedroom. the latter part is true, I’ve barely left my bedroom, but that dear reader is because I have managed to get norovirus and what seems like the flu simultaneously, so it’s less “pull my hair and do me now” and more “hold my hair please I’m going to be sick” which isn’t nearly as fun. Mind you, whilst on the phone to the NHS helpline (Johnny’s idea, not mine, felt thoroughly stupid when they started asking me if I might have ebola- nope just food poisoning sorry to trouble you) the guy on the line goes “yes well vomiting does weaken the effects of the contraceptive pill so you’ll need to take extra precautions if you do anything like that in the next few days” …funnily enough I don’t really fancy it right now!

So in my bored, bedridden state I decided to look for a valentines day present for Johnny. Gifts for him throws up an array of “man gifts” for your average manly man, super hot chilli sauce FOR MEN, personalised pint glass FOR MEN, tool kit FOR MEN, engraved money clip (that’s a thing manly men need apparently, obviously for taking to strip clubs to pay for bitches because they’re manly men! Grrrrr! Testosterone!). However, if you take one letter out of for men it says “for me” so I soon gave up and purchased Johnny’s valentines day treats (plural, because I’m the best) on Ann Summers and left it at that. Because, to all extents and purposes, Johnny is not a manly man. He can grow a pretty mean beard but if you ask him what film he wants to watch he’ll probably say Frozen or Pitch Perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him drink a pint of lager in my life, only cider or some weird bottled beer. And I’ve never seen anyone so excited about the prospect of my new body shop body butter. Plus he doesn’t like steak which I personally find an abomination. Mind you, he has his manly moments but my mother is inevitably reading so we’ll leave that one there… (sorry mum)

On the subject of manly men (tenuous link coming up) The Sun recently stopped publishing it’s page 3 girls for 3 days and then started again with a rather stunning blonde named Nicole (who is 22 and from Bournemouth, fascinating).

As a result the page 3 debate is back. Whilst I agree that maybe images like this shouldn’t be this easy for children to get hold of, the idea that it is unfair on the women in the pictures really baffles me. Judging from Nicole, 22 from Bournemouth’s expression I don’t think she’s being held at gun point and forced to take off her clothes, I don’t think even Murdoch is that much of a dick. The fact of the matter is these women get paid to do this, and gosh darn it good on them. Honestly, if someone wanted to pay me to take my clothes off (like lots of money, not like “‘ere love get your baps out and I’ll buy you a boneless banquet”) I damn well would. However, I imagine if I ended up on page 3 you’d probably only get half of me on there. Their bodies are an investment of their time and money, and so essentially are their business, just like anyone else who owns a business. It’s how they make money and that’s their choice not anyone else. Of course there is the argument that it objectifies women as a whole and teaches men to treat women as slabs of meat but does the media not do the same to men? I mean have you SEEN the M&S advert with David Gandy? Jeez, that is something beautiful. Here are a few snaps incase you haven’t seen it (or, if you have, for old times sake…mmm)

I really don’t think that women, or men, using what they’ve got and flaunting it can be considered objectifying. There used to be a time when women were shamed for showing their ankles (bummer for me and my ankles) and now we live in a time of “yaaay get your boobies out and put them everywhere!” and personally I think that’s great! 🙂

Who needs diets when you have spanx?

So the festive season is once again upon us; bringing with it parties food and booze to tempt even the most devout gym bunny (I talk of course about people who aren’t me because I’ve never been one to turn down a bottle of fizz and a multipack of mince pies). But I did say to myself when I caught sight of my ever increasing being as a result of all all the festive goodies… and free stuff seriously all the supermarkets are like here try the food it’s like free lunch! I said to myself I would go on a diet before Christmas party season so that I could match up to the friend that rows, the friend that swims and the friend that does army things.  I don’t want to look like the friend that eats constantly! 
However,  following a stressful couple of weeks of dead relatives and essay deadlines (more of the latter fortunately) it was apparent that I was not going to be a vision in black.  So yesterday I reluctantly took myself shopping for what little selection of LARGE dresses there were left in the sales. I stumbled across a few but they all made me look somewhat poured into the dress like a jelly mould. Until I tried on this one

Still a bit lumpy and the white bra was doing me no favours but at £99 in the Hobbs sale I decided I would have it and make an investment… spanx.

For those of you unfamiliar with spanx, they’re super super granny pants with magical powers that shave a good couple of inches off you. It’s a bit of a trial getting them on,  I asked the sales assistant if they had the next size up to which she informed me I was already wearing the large, they’re just super tight to hold in all your flab. Thanks bitch. The thing that messes with my mind is where does it all go? I was still perfectly comfortable so it couldn’t be pushed back in to rupture my spleen or whatever (what even is a spleen? I’ve never had mine mentioned at the docs so clearly I have a perfect spleen) the pants go up to my boobs, lucky Johnny,  so it wasn’t pouring out of the top.  It had simply gone.

Until I took them off again.  Then there it all was. With the dress on I looked a vision of good health and said to the sales assistant “who needs diets when you have spanx” she failed to comment so clearly she’s doing party season slimming the old fashioned way. That or she can’t speak because her spanx are so tight!

So lets talk about Meghan Trainor… (but if you don’t want to read my rant there’s a funny story at the end)

So I’ll be the first to admit I love “All About the Bass” with every fibre of my, often pretty shameful, taste in music. It’s upbeat, it’s funny and sassy and if I wake up feeling hideous it always puts me in a better mood. I recently sang a version behind the fish counter at work including the line “I’m all about the bass, the sea bass, no turbot” which was pretty horrendous but yeah I love this song. However, Trainor has been criticised by many for supposedly “skinny shaming” and “basing her self worth on the opinions of men” after singing about boys liking a bit more booty to hold at night. When I hear that lyric I didn’t immediately imagine people having sex, I imagined a couple being asleep but with the guy just holding this woman’s arse all night which is weird and he should stop.

Okay sure, I see the point people are making but in interviews Trainor simply laughs off these comments as she explains that she wrote a song and made some funny, clever lyrics, its how she makes money give the girl a break (such as the bit where she goes “na I’m just playing”- you know, the bit in the song where she explains that calling people skinny bitches was a joke, because it was) but okay if she wrote it she gets all the grief for it right?

Wrong.

I myself find that if I mention that I like the song to people I occasionally get a rant about how I’m encouraging skinny shaming, I’m not, I’m listening to a song. I love skinny people, all my friends are skinny, they are also all bitches, skinny bitches! It’s like Robin Thicke all over again, instead of just the artist getting bashed for writing controversial lyrics, people who enjoy the song for the catchy tune, or for memories it brings back or whatever reason, get slated as well.

So my point here is this, if people like a certain song there’s no need to assume they like it because they agree wholeheartedly with every word of the song and so there’s no need to lay into them for it. For example, I quite like the song “I wanna have your babies” by Natasha Bedingfield (remember her?) but this doesn’t mean I’m desperate for Johnny to pop a bun in the oven. Oooh that reminds me funny story…

if you don’t want to read my over sharing or you are my mother please stop reading now 🙂

So basically there was a small concern that maybe I was pregnant, like teeny tiny concern I was probably just being melodramatic I’m on the pill so yeah complete overreaction. So I dutifully sent Johnny out to buy a pregnancy test, a Waitrose essentials one no less because I am a classy individual. So I was there reading away and it says to remove the cap, hold the thumb grip and wee on the absorbent strip. So instead of looking at the picture I looked at the midstream (that’s what they’re called, that caused great confusion when I thought it meant you could only wee on it mid-stream- so there was a lot of clenching) and saw a fabric bit on one end. Great that must be the absorbent strip. So I took the lid off and went about my business then put the cap back on (confused as to why as I’d just weed on the other end) and then I waited…

“Oh bloody essentials range doesn’t even work not getting any reading I’m going to have a child nooooo” was pretty much my response… So then I looked at the picture. Turns out the fabric patch is the thumb grip. who knew eh? So there was Johnny desperate to know if he needed to start looking for a better job to support Johnny Jr and I had to admit that I am too stupid to realise you wee on the bit with a cap on…

(did another one an hour later and there are no buns in the oven, panic over)

 

The phaaaaaantom of the bathroom scales…

Dear reader,

I come to you with a problem I have had all my life. A problem which I hope other people share but when asking my peers nobody else seems to have a clue what I’m talking about. Picture the situation, your horrible doctor (not that I’m bitter) tells you you need to shed some pounds and so dutifully you give up the things you hold dear in life such as wine, and wine. And you hear from your friends that you’ve lost weight and you feel your jeans are slightly looser (or maybe they just need washing) and you go to your doctors appointment thinking “yeah I’ll show her, I’m hot stuff now” and you stride onto the scales (after removing your shoes, belt, scarf and even shirt this time I kid you not in an attempt to show her that I owe some of my weight to my, frankly cracking, breasts)

Only to discover you have lost nothing but your dignity in getting your rack out.

And it then dawned on me that, whilst in appearance I’ve lost weight from time to time, in actual hard numbers on a set of scales I’ve only ever gained or stayed at a constant. Now I know I’m not as chubby as I have been before but the figures say otherwise and I certainly haven’t got any taller (I hit 5″7 when I was 13 and thats where I stopped whilst everyone over took me). So my question is this- where does the weight hide? I’ve heard of having the weight of the world on your shoulders but this is ridiculous. Does my emotional baggage climb up onto the scales with me, only to gain a pound or so everytime I have a bad day? Unfair.

So this is the new theory. I’m being haunted. By a very spiteful ghost who in a past life battled with her weight (of course its a woman we’re all secret bitches at heart) and so every time I get on the scales she pops her foot on too just to mess with the weight. I also think she has posessive powers because sometimes I return from the fridge with all sorts of goodies and I can’t be doing that consciously.

On a sidenote I found this online, I don’t know who it is but they win my favourite halloween costume ever.

The tinder date report is finally in… after 6 months…

Dearest reader,
Sorry I’ve been pretty vacant from my blog for the past few months, my boyfriend stood on my laptop with his gargantuan feet (size 12 ladies 😉 ) and smashed it up so I’ve been suffering along with my phone for the past couple of months. I must admit I had all but forgotten about this blog until the aforementioned big-foot mentioned he’d stumbled across it whilst doing a quick back story stalk of me before we got together.

Yes. He read EVERYTHING. Not only did he read about how I’m a bit chubbs, but he read about how sometimes I just don’t shave for months and worst of all he read about himself! I was quite horrified but he insisted I update everyone now just incase they thought I’d gone on a tinder date and died…

I didn’t die.

Instead I ended up in a relationship and we’ve been together nearly 6 months which is nice, except his single bed is definitely not big enough for him and BOTH my thighs so I tend to just hang off the edge. But yes, his name is Johnny (I can tell you that now my secret blog is no longer secret) and he has long legs which delights my mother as she says that if we get married and have lots of sex and babies then they might not have stumpy fat legs (cheers mum).Look here we are falling for a crappy merchandising deal where we get a photoshopped picture for £10 on a day out!

But things are going good except I did put on a bit of relationship weight from being wined and dined but he put on more so I still win!

HOWEVER… I then made a desperate attempt to lose said weight before my holiday (and because my doctor told me if I put on any more weight I can’t have my contraceptive pills…. honey, I’ll be a lot heavier with a bun in the oven, just give me the drugs). I resorted to desperate measures, I gave up drinking…sometimes, and believe it or not I actually lost weight and had less hangovers if we ignore the Friday night I got absolutely sozzled and had to leave work early the next day with the excuse “my boyfriend gave me ibuprofen and i’m allergic”. Nobody believed me but I went home and cuddled up with a bucket for the next 24 hours. However, I downed my 2 pint cocktail faster than the girl I really don’t like so it was time well wasted I think. But anyway yes, I lost weight, it was great…

until the other day. when I saw them. the beginnings of a road map forming on my tummy. luckily it seems to only be a couple of byways at the moment but its only a matter of time before the M4 appears across my stomach! I’m talking of course, about stretch marks. Just one morning out of nowhere they appeared. Now I’m no stranger to stretch marks, they’re just a fact of life and thats that. However, what I do take offence to is that I got them from LOSING weight. Apparently that’s a thing, I did some research and apparently if you lose weight quickly enough you get them anyway. So my reward for being good and losing some chub is stretch marks, I feel cheated. Clever as I am though, I’ve booked my check up doctors appointment with doctor meany-face for the morning before I go on holiday so I can drink and eat rubbish until my heart and appetite are content 🙂

A bad bloggers confession…

Dear readers,

As I’m sure some of the more observant of you have noticed, I have been relatilvely absent from my blog for a number of reasons

1) The boyfriend and I broke and I was plunged into turmoil, despair and the arms of another man (arms, lips, bed, same difference (sorry mum))

2) I joined a gym and after my two sessions I had to head into a brief hibernation to recover from both the exercise and the results of not owning a sports bra because why waste money on something you’ll use twice (like my gym membership?)

3) I went on the university sports tour by lying and claiming to be on the equestrian team- fortunately no riding occured as I’ve never been on a horse except for a pony that looked like it was going to buckle under my mass when I was a remarkably rotund child

4) A new internet sensation took over my life. I’m talking, of course, about Tinder.

Ah yes, the ‘T-word’ that causes all those who have it to tell you their horror stories about creepy perverts and overly attached strangers, and all those who dont to judge you for being desperate silently in their heads. My experience with Tinder so far has been varied, for starters I got 491 Matches which I think is more men than I actually know in real life so clearly I’m a vision. I should note my pictures are top half of my body only so no man has yet to witness the offending thighs.

I’ve had a few charming comments from the bloke who when I didn’t reply because I was at work sent me 8 messages telling me i was “just like th rest ov them u ignore me becus Im ugly”- no, I ignore you because you are both clingy and illiterate which is hardly a turn on, I don’t need poorly written love letters every day. Then on the other end of the spectrum you get the sex-pests who like to use some choice lines such as (these were my favourite three(again, sorry mum!))-

“Whats the difference between Jam and Jelly?… I cant Jelly my dick into your arse”

“My watch says you’re not wearing any pants… oh wait its an hour fast” – thats funny my watch tells the time you cretin.

“What’s the difference between a 12 volt battery and your body?” (Well one is a living organism, one you can fit into a remote, one is metal the other is flesh, the list is endless) “I know it’s weird but I just want to lick them both” I’m sorry but WHAT?! that is just concerning. (Also, not a difference my friend has just pointed out, how did I miss that?)

Thank god for the block button.

But it’s not all doom and gloom dear readers, there appears to be a clear winner of the tindergames! I swiped right (translation- Decided I liked his appearings and brief life summary on his profile) because he wasn’t topless flexing in a mirror or sporting a Joey Essex costume or stood by a car that I’m supposed to believe is his- I’ve got a bus pass mate I don’t need your wheels! No, he just looked relatively normal and instead of making some vain attempt at a hook up was actually interesting to talk to and completely literate and very charming and funny. So we’ve been chatting for a few weeks and are planning to meet up next Tuesday and go for dinner 🙂 We shall call him Hitch (sadly he is not Will Smith but a girl makes do with what she has) So with any luck he is not a murderer, heres hoping!

One other thing though, he lives a bit away and so he can drink and not drive back he’s booked himself into a hotel room… but it’s a double room. Long legs or presumtuous, more on this as it happens!

 

 

 

Beauty is in the thigh of the beholder

Our story begins, dear reader, at my gym induction the other day (pause for reaction) when the lovely attractive gym man asks my friend and I if we tend to do cardio traing or weights… Obviously the answer is neither but I opt for cardio as weights are for the men, right? Wrong apparently, attractive gym man explains, because apparently “women cant build up that much muscle”. I’m sorry have you seen my thighs? if I started weight training I’d turn into a bodybuilder. Actual science fact, I got tested and turns out I have above average levels of testosterone for a woman- yay… basically the medical way of saying “you’re a bit on the butch side, love”.

So whilst relaying this fun annecdote to the boyfriend in bed and rabbiting on again about how I will never have skinny thighs and I’ve just come to accept it (how this is pillow talk I will never understand but somehow we got onto it) he said possibly the most romantic thing I have ever heard.

“But I like your thighs, they’re sexy”

My thighs, MY thighs, are sexy!

Finally, someone who accepts me for my thighs. The mind baffles, it really does. Naturally, being the tactless fool I am my response wasn’t something affectionate and nice. Oh no, I actually punched the air and told him “I’m going to put that on my blog!” Then the next day he took me out for a kfc- how very unhealthy, who cares? My thighs are sexy apparently! HA!

Fancy Dress Dilemma

With my birthday a mere 10 days away I thought I ought to plan something so that I don’t spend it with a takeaway and a season of Supernatural (although saying that, that actually sounds like a good idea). I panicked and decided a fancy dress night out would be a laugh and I chose musicals as my theme, because who doesn’t love musicals? (most of my friends apparently but its my birthday so I care not) So with that in mind I began racking my brains for sexy musicals characters as the boyfriend will be attending (thats correct, he’s been promoted, more on that later, more pressing matters at hand) So I had can can dancer from Moulin Rouge, Roxy Hart or Velma Kelly of Chicago, and that was pretty much where my list ended. So I decided can can dancer was the outfit for me and prompty told the boyfriend who was most pleased at this decision

Indeed with an outfit like that can you really blame him? That girl is pretty fit. That was when it hit me, I’m not that girl, and unless a miracle happens and my mad exercise regieme of walking to the shops for food suddenly lets me lose 6 stone then it’s unlikely I will be her by the time my birthday comes around and boyfriend who thinks he’s getting that, will infact end up with her slightly podgey, shorter, paler counterpart probably stumbling about the place sloshing champagne and birthday cake everywhere (and if that’s not a turn on I dont know what is) So I scratched my dreams of being a can can girl and went back to the drawing board, hmm maybe a pantomime horse or the wicked witch of the west?

This led me to ask an important question about how I feel about my relationship with my thighs now that boyfriend is in the picture, after all, my thighs and I are very close. But the question is, Do I want to try and put extra effort into getting rid of them so as to have the best of legs now that I have someone to show them to (my mum reads this blog on occasion, sorry mum) or do I adopt a “love me, love my thighs” policy and assume that they havent put him off thus far so why indeed should they? Saying that, he’s not exactly Ryan Gosling so he can deal with it to be perfectly honest. But this still leaves me with the dilemma that I have no costume for my own bleeding birthday party. So I tried to think of musicals characters famed for their curves. I got no further than hairspray before realising that is essentially committing social suicide. I would change the theme but all my friends (yeah, the ones who claimed to hate musicals before they discovered all the ways they could dress like slappers) already have costumes. So it would seem I am doomed to the curse of looking positively awful in fancy dress once again and have nobody to blame but myself. With any luck I’ll drink far too much to actually care 🙂 Fear not dear reader, a whole portfolio of horrendous photos shall be uploaded for your perusal, along with one of the boyfriend hopefully 😛