To: Jabba The Hut, Subject: Wedding Invite

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…


Those Curly Locks

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.

“Pretty damn!”

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.

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Katy Perry

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!

The Dinner Party

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.

“Well done!”




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.

Get her off the telly, please…

August 13, 2010 § 5 Comments

Is it just me, or does it seem that Paris Hilton is treated like absolute royalty?

Now, usually, I don’t rant about a lot of things. I’m usually quite calm (when the kids aren’t around), and well behaved, but ever since Paris ‘I’m a princess!’ Hilton released her TV show (you know, that one where she has to find a best friend since she can’t get one by herself), she’s everywhere. Daughter records the episodes every week, even though she agrees with me that she’s a spoilt little brat. She claims she only wants to watch it to laugh at all the pathetic losers who take part on the show. Mm.

I had the misfortune to have to watch the last episode with Daughter, since my mum was asleep downstairs, and Couch Potato was snoring too loudly in the next room for me to cope until my aspirin kicked in.

“Do we have to watch this, Daughter? Surely there must be something more appealing on.”

“Yes, we do, Mum. I like to laugh at all the pathetic losers who take part on the show.” Again, mm.

So I relaxed back, crossing my fingers that the satellite would bust up and we’d have to switch to DVDs.

Of course, that didn’t happen.

So instead I had to endure a whole hour of Paris Hilton’s My New BFF (don’t ask me how I know the full title – I don’t even know why myself), where all her little stalkers themselves endured a whole day in prison (I felt a bit like that myself) to see ‘how Paris felt when she was inside’. I felt like screaming: “SHE WAS INSIDE BECAUSE SHE BROKE THE LAW, FOR GOD’S SAKE”, but I didn’t, because it would wake Mum up and she’d wonder what the hell was going on upstairs.

I then saw Paris’ outfit and my jaw almost hit the carpet beneath my feet.

She was wearing an outfit that is completely indescribable. I honestly couldn’t describe it if you gave me two whole days to do so. Take a look for yourself and see if you can do otherwise.

I was beginning to wonder if the outfit was suitable for my daughter to view. She seemed perfectly at ease – even when she forced her stalkers to dress in bikinis (and for the gay dude and the obviously-in-love-with-her-but-pretending-otherwise boy, a pink shirt and shorts) and stilettos and run around the playground outside, leaping over things and climbing ropes of her own hair (I sincerely hope I’d misheard her).

They then revealed a dartboard for them to show their paint-soaked shoes at, with a picture of a random girl called ‘Katie’ on. I wondered who this Katie was, and asked Daughter, who didn’t know either. It was then revealed that she was a girl who’d ‘disrespected Paris, so deserves bad things to happen to her’, by swearing at her as she got voted off the previous show. I felt like vomiting at how sickly these stalkers were.

“Daughter, please, if you really love me you’ll spare me of this,” I begged, on my knees as the stalkers went to get their lunch, which was a single cup of water and a dollop of chilli and tuna on their trays.

Daughter just ignored me, as per, her eyes focused on the television screen.

I don’t even know why I stayed in the room. Maybe I thought if I left, the stalkers would follow me, armed with sharp stilettos.

When the programme had finally finished after losing two stalkers, I felt like my whole world had opened up again, and I was free of this pink and princessy nightmare.

“Did you enjoy that, Mum?” Daughter teased, a grin on her face.

“Yes, I loved it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and PUKE IN THE TOILET. Thank-you.”

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