September 21, 2010 § 1 Comment
Okay, so it’s been a few days since the wedding actually occurred, but I’ve had so much to think about (and, quite frankly, so much to watch on TV – need to clear out the planner) so didn’t actually get round to it until now.
So, I decided to go with the blue dress (the one I loved). I still like the black and white one, so that is hung up in my wardrobe and shall be used soon (if, that is, I get invited to any parties/night outs soon). The blue one, however, is being kissed constantly by myself.
I was feeling quite self-conscious on the way, as Couch Potato had said it looked “too old for me” (yet Daughter said the complete opposite. Who shall I believe?!). By the time we were getting out of the car my legs were practically wobbling and my nails were getting bitten more and more as the seconds progressed.
We got in the church and the wedding was brilliant – so lovely and romantic.
It was the reception that people actually started to notice me, though. I was wearing oiled tights to boost my confidence slightly, and people complimented me on my ‘lovely legs’ as they passed me on the stairs. If only they knew, I thought.
But I was most fond of the compliments I received on the dress. A few youngsters told me it suited me well (I’d paired it with black shoes and a black cardigan, despite thinking it was a bad idea beforehand), thankfully, so I told them how my darling partner had told me it looked too old for me. They immediately disagreed, so I vowed then to never trust his opinions again (yes, even if he tells me a sheepskin sack outfit would look quite bad to a trip out to a water park. Even then).
I love you, dress. You are my new husband.
September 15, 2010 § Leave a comment
Tonight, I went out to look at yet more dresses. I went to Monsoon first of all, and found 2 dresses that I took a shine to at first glance.
The 1st was this one:
which I absolutely adore. The only problem with it, though, is that I’d probably have to then search all over town for some blue shoes to match (after already finding a matching clutch. I don’t half feel famous). I did buy it, obviously (how could I let it stay in the shop, all on it’s lonesome? I just had to get it), and I need a bit of fashion advice. What sort of shoes shall I wear with them?
And this is the 2nd one I found:
which I am rather fond of. I bought a small black cardigan to go over the arms for this one (let’s say I’m not overly confident in the arm department), and it looks quite nice. I’m going to try them both on tonight, and see how I look with them both on. I’ll update tomorrow (that is, if I actually get round to trying them on. I am quite shattered, and so may end up falling asleep in front of the keyboard…).
I’d love your opinions on the dresses, and what to wear with either! Thanks!
September 9, 2010 § 6 Comments
My friend’s wedding is coming up, and I haven’t even chosen my outfit yet.
I went out looking in the reccomended shop and found a few nice dresses that I thought would look nice on me, but the prices just put me right off. £200 for a plain black dress! *faints*
For the hen night I just picked a couple of outfits to go along with the events, but obviously I can’t wear them to the wedding, so the wardrobe doors close. I need to find a nice outfit before long, or else I’ll be showing up to the wedding wearing nothing but my pyjamas – and it is seriously looking that way.
When I went to the shop yesterday, I saw lots of lovely dresses. The shop assistant came over multiple times, saying “oh, wow, that would look splendid on you!” and “that would go well with your skin-tone [pale] nicely!”
But, of course she’d say that. She’d tell Jabba the Hut that the dresses would suit him just to get money out of him.
I’d better find a shop fast, otherwise Jabba will be having my invite instead, wearing my special dress…
September 3, 2010 § 8 Comments
This week’s Red Writing Hood prompt is to write a story or poem from the perspective of a broken, inanimate object, as Ericka is sharing her love for The Brave Little Toaster. It may sound strange, but believe me, when you get into the flow of writing it, it isn’t.
Those Curly Locks
I knew that today was different. I knew as soon as I woke up – I always wake up when the toy-box opens, which is about roughly 8am each day, when Julia plays with me for an hour before school, and let’s me sleep on her bed while she’s out. It’s heaven, bliss.
But now, it’s different.
When I woke up, Julia was, as usual, staring right back at me, with a smile on her pretty face. She usually picks me up to brush my lovely hair. It’s gorgeously blonde, and straight, with a lovely pink floral hair clip on the left.
“Morning Barbie,” Julia said, lifting me out and kissing my cheek. She took off my pink and white pyjamas and clothed me in one of my favourite outfits – my golden sparkly gown.
“Morning,” I said, but obviously she couldn’t hear me. She pretends she can, though, but gets the speech wrong sometimes. I might be talking about how Teddy was having trouble sleeping, but she’d think I was talking about my brand new convertible.
Julia’s face lit up as soon as she put my hairbrush away. Her eyes danced.
“Boy, Barbie, have I got a surprise for you!” she gushed, and left the room.
I sat up straight. A surprise? She didn’t usually get me surprises. The convertible was a one off, special offer in Toys R Us. The only surprise I’d gotten before that was a couple of years before, a special edition turquoise prom dress, that I wore for weeks after. It shrunk in the wash though, and it wasn’t replaced.
Julia suddenly came running back in, excitedly. She sat down, cross-legged, in front of me, with her hands behind her back.
“Are you ready, Barbie?”
I grinned. “I sure am!”
After a few seconds she brought her hands forward, presenting another doll. She was beautiful – brunette curls with slight caramel highlights, a beautiful purple halter-neck paired with rolled-up jeans, and the highest heels I’d ever seen. Even my stilettos didn’t compare to these, and I was known to twist my ankle on occasion.
“Hi,” she said, smiling. “I’m Chelsea.”
I wanted to smile back, but was just too jealous. I envied her of her beauty, her clothing, her stilettos. But most of all, those curly locks.
“I’m Barbie. Hey.”
Chelsea’s smile widened. “So you’re the real deal? Wow. I’ve heard so much about you. All the teddies, dinosaur toys, even the alphabet blocks told me pretty much 24/7 how beautiful you were. But I didn’t think this much!”
I was flattered.
“Thank you! I mean, so are you. I love those stilettos!”
Chelsea grinned. “Really? I got them specially in a Vogue edition of my doll. Free.”
I stared at them. They truly were gorgeous. Peep-toed, dark blue silk.
“So… are you going to show me your place?”
I smiled and took Chelsea’s arm. I led her to my mansion, which had my pink convertible parked right outside. Chelsea gasped as soon as she set one stiletto heel on the driveway.
“Is this all yours?” she asked, touching the car with one perfectly-manicured finger.
“Yeah. I sleep in the toy box usually, but during the day I mostly hang around here. I don’t move a lot, as Julia sometimes loses where I am.”
“I totally get what you mean. Wow. Just… wow.”
I led Chelsea round the back to where all my garden equipment was.
“So, do you have your own special gardener, or do you do it yourself?” Chelsea asked, curiously playing with the garden shears.
“I usually do it myself, but sometimes Teddy or Ken helps me.”
“So Ken’s your boyfriend?”
“Wow. You’re so lucky. I mean, really, all I have is these curly locks.”
“No way! You’re beautiful!”
“No. Once, I accidentally shaved off all my locks, and I was ugly as sin. Honestly. And it didn’t help matters having a huge mirror in my box.”
I was stunned. She seemed so beautiful, but was it really just the hair? Wow.
Chelsea suddenly walked towards the back door, noticing the hedge trimmer.
“Wow, what’s this?” she asked, picking it up.
“The hedge trimmer. I wouldn’t go near that, I only use it about once a month. My hedges don’t grow that high, really.”
Chelsea laughed and looked at it from all angles. “What does it do?”
“Well… it trims hedges,” I said. Maybe she was right about the whole hair thing? Didn’t seem like she had much of a brain in there.
Chelsea looked awestruck. She obviously hadn’t seen nor heard of one before, and this seemed to fascinate her.
“I love new things. You learn something new everyday, and I tend to stick to that. Do you love discovering new things?”
I shrugged. “I guess so…”
Chelsea found the ‘on’ button and pressed it. The trimmer whirred away. Chelsea raised her eyebrows and grinned.
“Can I have a go at trimming your hedges?” she asked.
I sighed. She probably wouldn’t get off my back if I declined. “Sure.”
Chelsea smiled and walked over to my hedges. She trimmed, and was surprisingly good at it for a first go.
“Sure you’ve never used one?” I asked, grinning. She looked like a real pro.
Suddenly, as she turned to trim the other side, her heel caught in the hosepipe reel. Before either of us knew what was happening she was falling backwards, the trimmer dangerously near her head. She landed on the paving stones with a crash, her heels flying off her feet.
“Chelsea!” I cried, running over to help pick her up. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Just took a tumble there.”
I sighed with relief. Phew. I helped her stand up, and that’s when I noticed.
“Your hair is gone!”
Yes, sure enough, the hedge trimmer was lying on the floor, still buzzing, and surrounding it were those curly locks.
August 31, 2010 § 2 Comments
My son will be starting high school exactly one year from now.
It seems like only yesterday I whipped the camera out and took a photo of him in his new school uniform and wonky specs, all toothless grins and excited bounces.
And now it’s his last primary school year.
He goes back tomorrow, and I’m just about to go out and buy some new school shoes for himself and Daughter. He seems quite excited to be starting his very last year at primary, but that’s probably only because he’ll be one of the oldest (but probably still the smallest) in the whole school.
I overheard this conversation the other day, which proved my point:
Son: Is Year 6 easy?
Daughter: Yeah, why?
Son: Well, I wanted to know if the work is hard.
Daughter: No, it isn’t. It’s way easy.
Daughter: Are you excited?
Then again, he did hide Henry the Hoover in his room under his desk for no specific reason, and left a bowl of moulding lettuce on the desk.
Surely he isn’t THAT mature…
August 28, 2010 § 6 Comments
As you may know, last week I took part in Red Writing Hood, a meme courtesy of The Red Dress Club.
This week’s prompt is: An art opening at a lavish downtown gallery. A car crashes through the plate glass window. The driver’s door opens, and an eight-year-old girl steps out.
I was a little confused as to how to use this in context, but after reading some other entries, I understood completely and after a while (again, with the help of my daughter… I must pay her for this, really) I finally thought it all up.
The Art Gallery
Kelly held her bag over her shoulder as she pulled the door open to the Summerdale Art Gallery. She was excited about the grand art opening. The artist, Juliet Brentwood, was her idol. She’d never seen her before, nobody had. That was her mystique. There were no photographs, no videos, as cameras were strictly forbidden at any of her events. This did seem unusual, but so was her work.
“Welcome to Summerdale Art Gallery, how may I help you today?” the receptionist smiled, her register in front of her, filled with A-list names.
“I’ve come for the Juliet Brentwood event,” Kelly replied, almost unable to hold in the excitement. She had to clench her fists to contain her energy, and her nails were digging into her palms painfully, but she didn’t care. It was worth it, she thought.
The receptionist smiled again, ticked Kelly’s name off the register and was given directions to the gallery room.
When she entered the room, there were more people in there than she’d have thought. She wasn’t really expecting a lot of people to be there, especially in England – Juliet was American after all.
The atmosphere was warm, welcoming. Kelly smiled at everyone and sat down, looking at her watch and grinning when she saw the time was nearing for Juliet’s arrival.
20 minutes passed, 20 minutes full of anticipation and excitement, and Kelly was actually starting to get a bit impatient. Juliet was supposed to be there as soon as Kelly had arrived. She didn’t think Juliet would be the sort to be fashionably late – she didn’t seem the fashionista, diva type. Her art was mysterious, dark, shadowing, and yet enjoyable. Kelly could stare at one of her canvases all day and boredom wouldn’t even cross her mind.
Suddenly, a loud shattering sound awoke everyone from their boredom. Everyone stood up immediately and ran to find the source, the whereabouts of this.
Kelly had led the way, and was the first to see the front half of a silver BMW, windscreen cracked, shattered glass surrounding the front wheels in a million tiny, ice-like pieces.
“What the hell is going on here?”
All sorts of enquiries were being called, out loud, to nobody in particular, as none of them expected an answer.
What happened next shocked every one of them, even more than this.
The driver’s door opened, a hand gripped onto the top. They all saw someone jump out, a small figure. The door slammed shut, and the person faced the broken window, and everyone gasped. An 8-year-old girl was standing before their very eyes, a grin on her face. She opened her mouth, uttered 11 words, 11 words that would change everything, everyone’s thoughts, everyone’s views.
“Hello, everyone. I’m Juliet Brentwood. I believe you’ve been expecting me?”
August 24, 2010 § Leave a comment
Yes, it’s that time again for The Un-Mom’s Random Tuesday Thoughts. Now, to be honest, most of my thoughts are random, so this shouldn’t be very hard at all.
Have any of you guys heard the song ‘California Girls’? I’m pretty sure you actually have, seeing as though you hear it EVERYWHERE. Never a day goes by without me hearing ‘California girls, we’re unsociable’ or whatever the bloody line is. Daughter plays it on her laptop every day, so much that I could actually recite the lines to people (well… I couldn’t, but you understand).
It’s by that girl, Katy Perry. You know, the one who wears cupcakes on her bras and sequins on her Lycra shorts, singing away in candy-land. Heaven, methinks.
She’s engaged to Russell Brand, another reason to dislike her even more than already. She could bag any man in the world, and yet she chooses a rude, crude, ugly, Jack-Sparrow look-alike to marry. Or was that all just a nightmare I had a couple of nights ago?
Now, you may be thinking, why on earth is she talking about Katy Perry? Well, it is Random Tuesday Thoughts after all! If you want to take part, just go to The Un-Mom and link up your thoughts when written. Get thinking randomly, people!
August 22, 2010 § 6 Comments
I recently discovered The Red Dress Club, which is, in a nutshell, a writing workshop if you like.
I can’t remember how I found it exactly, but I’m glad I did. I scrolled down through the posts, and found Red Writing Hood.
What you do is, you look at the topics provided, have a look at other people’s entries if you like, and write a tale to correspond with the category.
This week’s provision is: write a first-person piece about either eating your favourite food or taking a shower – without using any personal pronouns.
Now, it seems easy written down. But once you start on the task, the toughness of it all kicks in, and you’re left with writer’s block.
So, I know it says ‘your favourite food’ and everything, but I’m just going to make something up, as I don’t even have a favourite food, or memories worth sharing of my shower and bath experiences, and also because my fiction is better than my non-fiction in all circumstances.
So, with the help of my generous (oh, please. Generous? Her? I had to bloody bribe her) daughter, I came up with this entry for the Red Writing Hood workshop.
The Dinner Party
Opening the cupboards. Realising the ingredients needed are nowhere in sight. Grabbing furiously at whatever is left, the feeling of disappointment and downright horror rising.
The guests will be here. Nothing is ready. Turning the oven up frantically, shoving the pan onto any free hob and dumping the random ingredients collected into it. Grabbing a wooden spoon and stirring it ferociously, staring at the clock all the while. The only sounds in the room are the quick pulse and the menacing ticking of the clock.
The doorbell rings. Early. The whole world stops and comes crashing down.
Running to the door, whipping off the apron and throwing it into the closet. Opening the door and greeting with hugs and the occasional kiss to the cheek. Leading to the living room, pulling out chairs politely and scurrying back to the kitchen, hiding the utter fear.
What to do? The meal isn’t ready, whatever the hell it is. Scooping it onto plates, trying to recognise the carrot and what looks like cabbage medley that has been conjured up. Taking the plates to the table, placing them down and eyeing reactions.
Feedback. Words. Nods. Smiles. No frowns, no vomit, no throwing down napkins and running out of the house forever. Good vibes.
Picking up the napkin sitting on the table and wiping the brow, beads of sweat dissolving into the tissue paper. Crumpling it up and tossing it to one side, it landing perfectly in the waste-paper basket as if professionally.
The positive feedback roars as forks land on empty plates and full stomachs practically burst out of pretty dresses and shirt and ties.
This was a good dinner party. Must happen again.
August 19, 2010 § Leave a comment
In my previous post, I may have … slightly mentioned that my daughter wanted to make some chocolate pudding sundaes. Well, we made them (which surprised even me).
After being pestered for roughly a whole day, I bought the ingredients needed and set them out on the kitchen worktop. We got the recipe up on the laptop and read it as we went along.
First of all, we emptied all the ingredients into the bowls (I’m not the baking type of person, so I’ll admit to putting some of them in wine glasses and some in children’s dishes due to my lack of organisation), with Daughter staying well clear of the cocoa powder (“I don’t want it getting in my eyes!”).
I then started to chop up the chocolate, with Daughter complained about:
“Mum, what kind of chocolate is that?” she asked worriedly.
“So it goes milk, plain, dark?”
“No, plain is dark.”
“OH NO! I HATE DARK CHOCOLATE! I ONLY LIKE MILK CHOCOLATE!”
“Don’t panic! We’ve got loads of milk going in it anyway, haven’t we?”
After about 10 minutes of chopping up the chocolate finely, we mixed everything into a pan on the stove.
I turned up the gas and started whisking it.
“Come here and help me, then,” I said, whisking it so ferociously that Daughter was laughing her head off by the laptop.
She gingerly came forward, appearing by my side with fear and panic in her eyes.
“It’s not hard,” I said, handing her the whisk. “Hurry though, it says to whisk constantly!”
Daughter started whisking, keeping her bodily distance away from the oven at all times.
Every so often, Daughter would wake my mum up, who was snoozing in the living room, and tell her what was going on, and Mum would say “is it ready yet?”, follow her into the kitchen and wiping all the chocolate from the spatula with her finger, proceeding to lick it off.
It was taking forever.
“When’s it supposed to go thicker?” Daughter asked.
“Ages ago… how long do I do this for?”
“It says 8 minutes, but with an additional minute added on.”
“Okay… open the back door, would you? I’m roasting.”
“No, you’re not, you’re baking.”
When that charade was finally over, we covered the desserts (that were spooned into random beer glasses) with baking sheets (we didn’t have anything else… told you I was disorganised!) and left them to cool before putting them in the fridge to set for 3 hours.
All in all, it was an okay afternoon. It would have been better if Daughter hadn’t been worried about eating hers because I thought some plastic was lodged inside, due to the whipped cream malfunctioning. Still, she was okay 🙂
August 17, 2010 § 4 Comments
Okay, so today I was planning on making a chocolate pudding sundae.
Well, I say I. I really mean Daughter.
While I was happily watching television in the living room, Daughter was looking through all the cookery blogs (don’t ask how she accessed all those – she’s a whiz-kid, enough said.
“Mum! Mum! Mum!” She called every two minutes, calling out a new recipe while I reluctantly paused the television. Each recipe required an electric mixer, which I don’t have (call me old-fashioned…).
“OH WOW! MUM!” came the final cry, and squeals of excitement as she scrolled through the recipe, the word ‘electric’ or ‘mixer’ nowhere in sight.
“CHOCOLATE PUDDING SUNDAES!”
Now, admittedly, they do look yummy. Daughter showed me all the photos of them, and I felt drool escaping my lips slightly.
“Can we have it for dessert tomorrow, Mum?” Daughter persisted, and before I could even open my mouth she was running round the room, shouting “Oh my god, I’m so excited! WOW! Look at these!”
My head was in my hands as she paraded round the room, thrusting the laptop screen at everyone’s face.
I have random thoughts every day (sometimes every minute of every day), and today’s was probably this:
I want to make these just so that I can pour them all over her head. After all – it serves 4.
Of course, I am joking. I’d never waste all that chocolate 😉