The Shedizzle

Ski Bunny

I went skiing a few weeks ago.

I can tell you know that I won’t be going ever again.

 With Matt living so close to the some mountains in France, it seemed like a good idea to have a go when I visited him a couple of weeks ago. Especially as Matt’s quite a good skier and has been on at me for ages about going on a skiing holiday, so I figured this would give me a chance to have a go and see if I like it before committing to a week of what could potentially be hell.

I’ve never really “got” skiing– I don’t understand why anyone would want to spend a long period of time outside in the cold, travelling up a mountain just to slide all the way back down again.

Anyway, as I’ve never been before, I didn’t have any of clothes to wear. And to be honest, I had no interest in buying a skiing outfit for one day of skiing. So I borrowed a pair of amazing pink ski trousers from a friend at work, bought myself a pair of very cute pink ski socks and took a couple of jumpers, vests, thermal tights and my mittens and ear muffs and thought that would be fine. Especially as I just assumed that we’d be skiing on a tiny little mountain with not many people around.

I really must stop assuming things, because once again, I was wrong.

For starters, when I showed Matt my ski clothes he just looked at me and laughed and told me I’d freeze. So I had to buy a pair of hideous sunglasses from the supermarket that had diamante stars on the arm, some proper ski gloves and a hat. But, because I’m cheap, I didn’t want to pay £30 for a hat from the proper skiing shop so I went into H&M and bought the only thing I could find, which happened to be a turban. 

A navy, knitted turban.

I looked ridiculous. And then we turned up at the ski slope, and I felt even more ridiculous because it was huge and there were loads and loads of people. And they all looked like they could ski and they all had on proper ski clothes. I was wearing a pair of bright pink trousers, a leather jacket and bright white gloves, topped off with my new turban that was held in place with my ear muffs. Oh, and a purple snood. 

   

When we eventually got to the top of the slope (which took a while as I found it impossible to walk in ski boots and it took forever to get to the lift) we found a quiteish area and Matt started to show me how to ski.

I fell over almost straight away. And then kept falling over. Over and over and over again. But I eventually managed to stand up straight and go down a (very tiny) slope and curve to the side. I was very pleased with myself.

Until Matt decided I should try the baby slope (although I swear the bit we were practicing on was steeper than the baby slope but whatever).  I don’t think I’ve ever found anything as traumatic as trying to cling onto the wire that moves you up the slope. I screamed and fell over the first time and then the second time I fell off at the top. And it was all for nothing, because I couldn’t seem to stand upright for long enough to get to the bottom and I kept falling over, whilst all these little kids sailed past me.

The best bit was the chocolate brownie that I ate in the little lodge and watching Matt fly down the big slopes. I think I can safely say that I won’t be going on any skiing holidays for a while.

loz989 asked: Hi Shedizzle, I love your blog! It makes me laugh!

Thanks :)

Stride of pride

I LOVE this advert.

 

It makes me laugh every time I watch it. 

 

 

I’ll write a proper blog in a few days, but I’ve been busy the last couple of weeks being a sloth and lazying around in bed.

 

Happy Christmas-partying! 

Square (with round edges)

I’m a square.

 

As if suffering from a quarter-life crisis wasn’t enough, I’ve come to realise just how much of a square I am. And yes, I realise how retro the word “square” is, but at least it’s a step up from being described as sensible. Sensible makes me think of Oasis trousers and Dorothy Perkins cardigans. And as I don’t shop in either of those places, I feel that I am at least elevated above “sensible” status. 

 

I never get drunk on a school night (at least not since Uni, which was *sob* three years ago), I’m terrified of getting into trouble and I look both ways before I cross the road. I permanently feel guilty for no reason whatsoever and I ALWAYS refill the Brita Filter. The list goes on. 

 

The thing is, I’m pretty sure that most people wouldn’t describe me as square (or at least they wouldn’t have until I started banging on every time I saw them about how much of a square I am).

 

But it’s a fear that’s stuck in my head now, and I think these squarish thoughts have made my quarter-life crisis even worse. That, and the fact that I, embarrassingly, still have a single bed. The shame. But this is being fixed as we speak after I threw the mother of all tantrums, shouting that it is “frankly ridiculous for a woman of 24 to be sleeping in single bed.” When I became a woman I don’t know, considering the childish strop I had, but hey ho, it worked.

 

And so, post-birthday and well and truly into the swing of my quarter-life crisis, I have decided that I’m going to turn things around. I am officially embarking on an “anti-square” lifestyle. I don’t think I’ll ever shake off the full square, so from now on, I am working on becoming a square with round edges (shout out to Matt for the name, although how he can call anyone a square is beyond me. Anyone that gets excited about particles definitely has straight edges in my book).

 

The first step in my mission?

 

Buy more leather clothes. I am now the proud owner of a leather dress (£24.99 from H&M, in case you were wondering…)

 

Too leather or not to leather, that is the question. I have no idea when I would wear it, and I have no idea how to wash or iron it, but whatever - my new, anti-square self doesnt care about these things any more.

 

 

Except I do, and it’s a bit creased. My mom suggested ‘wiping it down with a damp cloth’ as a way of washing it. How lovely. I go out looking ‘Rock n Roll’ and then come home for what is essentially a sponge bath. 

 

But, none of this matters, as I now have two leather items in my wardrobe! Which instantly makes me less of a square. 

 

Step two? Throw a Bonfire Night party (thank you Melanie, for giving me the idea!)

 

However, this sounds more exciting than it was, as there was no alcohol, just ‘party pop’ (I bought fireworks and food - I can’t be expected to provide drinks too…), and jacket potatoes and chilli and marshmallows. 

 

Plus, Sophie and I had spent the whole day baking. And we’d decorated the house with those crappy foil Christmas decorations and bunting. As you can imagine, it was wild. 

But it was still fabulous, and the first time I’d ever thrown a party at my house that wasn’t a supervised birthday party. 

 

I fully made the most of my eyebrows in the run-up to the party. Having been given the job of setting the fireworks off, I was not confident that they would still be there by the end of the night. They were plucked and groomed to within an inch of their life. 

 

 

So far, I’ve bought leather, I’ve had a house party and I’ve played with fire. 

 

I am definitely living on the edge. (Especially considering I’m writing this on a Friday night. I think I need to calm down.)

 

Poppy Power

This post is a little bit different to what I usually write, but it’s just a quick one!

 

The last few years has seen Remembrance Day mean a little bit more to me than it used to, so I wanted to put up a picture of a poppy especially for today.

 

(Source: twitter.com)

High Class

I’m pretty sure I was mistaken for an escort a few weeks ago. 

 

And for once, I didn’t have my boobs out. Maybe I have an ‘escort’ look about me. I suppose it’s a compliment, in a creepy way. Actually, I don’t think being mistaken for a high-class prostitute is ever a good thing. Maybe I need to reassess my look. Perhaps it had something to do with my red nail varnish…  

 

Anyway, I’d gone down to London for a meeting, and was sitting in a little coffee shop, discussing my meeting things, with a bunch of scarily intelligent and important engineers and scientists. Once we’d finished, and the bill was paid, I started to walk out ahead of everyone else only to have the waitress come running after me, shouting at the top of her voice for me to stop (which immediately made me want to run away - I have a permanent guilty concious). 

 

When she caught up with me, she gave me a business card belonging to someone who had been in the coffee shop before and told me he had asked her to pass it on and for me to give him a call sometime.

 

It was mortifying. 

 

But also quite flattering. Until I had a look at his (very posh) business card, which said he was the MD for a big Investment Bank. As an MD, I’d assume he’s quite old… and I look about 15. 

 

The only explanation for this horrifying exchange that I can think of is that he saw me surrounded by men in suits and assumed they were my ‘clients’. Which doesn’t bode very well for future meetings. Maybe I’ll start dressing like an Amish woman from now on. 

 

This kind of dress might have been quite useful last week, when I accidentally flashed my red frilly knickers to a room full of mechanics.

 

I am making a bit of a habit now of flashing people at work. Which is why, on this occasion, I had purposely chosen to wear a high-neck, longer length dress to a garage conference I went to last week. I even congratulated myself on my outfit choice when I got dressed, thinking there was no way I was going to embarrass myself today.

 

As usual, I was wrong. 

 

I had to stand up to give a little wave and say hello when I was introduced, and as I stood up, I could feel that my dress was stuck to the chair. And as I stood up, I felt round to pull my dress down, and it was right up over my bum. 

 

So, about 100 garage owners saw my knickers. The only saving grace was that I was wearing tights. But they were pretty thin ones, and when I checked when I got home, my knickers were clearly visable. 

 

Whoops. 

(Source: twitter.com)

Leather Legs

I’m having a mid-life crisis.

 

At 23 years old, I am having a breakdown about getting old. A quarter-life crisis, if you will.

 

I want to get a tattoo. Considering that I have tried in vain to put off any of my friends who have ever said they wanted a tattoo, this is huge. One of my best friends even hid her tattoo from me for weeks because I had such strong “anti-tattoo” feelings.

 

But now I’ve decided that a tattoo is just the thing I need. Along with a drum kit, because I’ve decided that it would be amazing if I could play drums. It doesn’t matter than I have the co-ordination of a monkey; in my head I have a hidden drum-playing talent to rival Phil Collins.

 

It’s my 24^th birthday in a few weeks and I am terrified about how I am going to cope. I spent my last birthday horrifically drunk, and crying. Crying in the toilet of a swanky bar, then all the way home and then curled up in a little ball in the shower.

 

I’m contemplating not celebrating, although gifts will still be welcome.

 

But, as my birthday creeps closer and closer and my fears about getting old get worse, I’ve done the age-old thing of buying leather.

 

That’s right – apparently, my quarter-life crisis is making me react in the same way that men do when they reach 50. I have bought myself some actual leather clothes. In the form of leather shorts, which look a tiny bit like something I would wear on safari (if they weren’t made of leather).

 

Calling them leather might be a little generous though, as they were only from Primark. Whilst I’m having the breakdown of a 50-year old, I don’t have the bank balance to match, so my leather shorts are really pleather shorts. But whatever, the principle’s the same. 

 

 

It seems that I’m not the only one who is suffering with getting old though. In this week’s Sunday Times Style magazine, the quarter-life crisis was featured in their “Going Up/Going Down” article.

 

So, I now have proof that I’m not just being a drama queen, but that my reaction is to be expected. And, a quick search online found a dozen different sites, all dedication to my ‘condition’. There’s even a Wikipedia page about it (I didn’t set it up to gain sympathy, I promise) and a hilarious website full of inspiring saying and suggestions to make getting through your crisis that little bit easier – “This is all you have – right now. And if you don’t use it – it’s gone.”

 

It even has its own entry in the Urban Dictionary:

 

Quarter-life Crisis

The period in your life occurring between 20 and 30 years of age, when you realize that a quarter of your life is over and : 

a) You’ve done nothing constructive with it 

 

- AND - 

b) You’ve set yourself up for another quarter just like it.  You may be experiencing a quarter life crisis if:  You ever ask yourself what the h*** you are doing with your life   

 

Anyway, I’m off to bathe in some anti-wrinkle cream, change into my leather pyjamas and cry into my pillow (although I will crying face up – face smushed into the pillow creates wrinkles daaahlings) about how I’ve not lived up to my own expectations for my life, and think about the meaningful thing my tattoo can say. 

Do you want to see my thing?

I have decided that I need a “thing”.

I’ve become obsessed with The Rachel Zoe Project, and I love Taylor. And Taylor wears Ray Bans ALL the time. They are her thing.

And now I want a thing.

So, because I don’t really think I am the kind of person who can get away with wearing sunglasses all the time and as my head is too small for hats, I have decided that my “thing” is going to be red nail varnish.

From now on, my finger nails are going to be red, red, red. 

This red nail varnish also ties in nicely with my new image revamp. I have decided that it is time for me to make myself look a bit “dirtier” (not like that…)

I am going to start wearing lots of eye-liner and back-combing my hair and I am going to wear skinny jeans and black boots every day.

The transformation will be like when Sandy becomes a bad ass in Grease. 

Or at least until my nail varnish chips and my feet start to ache…

 

When I grow up

I’ve just got home from an amazing two-week holiday around Europe and I’ve decided that I was definitely born into the wrong nationality.

 

When I grow up, I want to be a Spanish woman.

 

After spending a few days in Barcelona, I am now obsessed with all things Spanish.

 

Obviously, I’ve been to Spain before, but Barcelona is just the most amazing city. It made all of the Spanish resorts I’ve ever been to in the past feel about as authentic as the microwavable Spanish omelettes you can get from Tesco’s.

 

All of the Spanish women I saw in Barcelona were gorgeous – they all had amazing hair and were all lovely and tanned and ALL of them had nice shoes on (I’m not on the turn, I promise) and I want to look like them – the height of sophistication and elegance.

 

After Barcelona, we went to France and I couldn’t get out of the habit of saying “ola” instead of “bonjour”, “gracias” instead of “merci” and “adios” instead of “au revoir” and I just wanted to flounce about in a flamenco outfit and wave maracas around. This kind of behaviour didn’t go down to well with the French though… I’ve learnt that the French are a teeny bit lacking in the humour department.

 

Before Barcelona or France though, the holiday started off in Geneva. By day two, I had aggressive sunburn on my bum,  been stung by a wasp in my arm pit and I’d lost my watch. A successful start to the holiday, I’m sure you’d agree.

 

With the third degree burns I’d sustained on my bum, it meant that sitting down was quite hard. So, in an attempt to soothe the burn so I wouldn’t need to wince at the sight of an unpadded chair, I did a bit of research online for anything to calm it down.

 

The result? Spending two romantic evenings covered in tea-soaked kitchen rolls.

 

That’s right – the first time I’d seen Matt in weeks and he was covering me in wet paper towels. Lovely.

 

According to my research, there’s something in the tannin in black tea that is supposed to be good for sunburn.

 

I can tell you now that whoever came up with this “remedy” is a liar. I had a burnt bum for a week and stained sheets from where the tea had run off my bum and on to the bed.

 

Just for reference, another sunburn remedy that doesn’t work is tomatoes. A mental Spanish man told my mom a few years ago that cutting a tomato in half and rubbing it on your burns will make the redness go down straight away.

 

He also lied. It doesn’t work. Thinking back, I’m sure he sold us the tomatoes…. What a canny salesman.

 

This week’s lesson? Always slather sun cream on your bum. I can’t imagine any of the sophisticated women of Barcelona walking around with a sunburnt bum, so from now on I’m going to start living my life like a Spanish woman. My new motto is going to be “what would a Spanish woman do”? and I’m going to start speaking Spanish as much as possible in everyday life. At the moment, my grasp of the Spanish language extends to asking for a ham baguette and counting to ten, so we’ll have to see how it goes…

 

Adios!

 

 

P.S This blog is especially for my lovely, gorgeous friend Lindz. Hope you like it poppet, and that it was worth the wait!xxx

 

Hello boys

I had the most embarrassing day yesterday.

 

I sat in an hour long meeting, with my boobs on show. 

 

Not a very professional look (unless you’re a lady of the night, in which case I imagine having the boys out is the height of professionalism).

 

The button on my (very beautiful) top had come undone, and I didn’t notice until half way through the meeting. What do you do in that situation?! I could have casually tried to do the button up, but they are small little buttons and I pull a funny face when I’m fiddling with them. Instead I spent the next 30 minutes hoicking my top up. 

 

At one point, my top was up by my chin. But at least everything was under wraps for a change. 

 

I seem to be making a bit of a habit of flashing everyone and anyone at the moment. Not on purpose, but they just seem to want to pop out to say hello at inappropriate times. 

 

I have, however, discovered a reason for this. There’s a direct link between my boob flashing and across-the-body bags! Every time I wear one with a top with buttons, the boys make a guest appearance.

 

The bags are obviously the evil creation of a very clever man. 

 

I would rather not flash the world and his wife, but at least I don’t make a conscious decision to do so. Not like the poor people who seem to think that wearing leggings as an actual pair of trousers is an acceptable form of behaviour. It looks like you’re wearing a body stocking. 

 

I’m writing this on the train up to Manchester and I’ve never seen so many legging-clad bums in my life. It’s a fact of life that leggings just make your crotch look funny and your bum look big. 

 

So, as a stand against leggings (and for that case, jeggings - I don’t get those either. Why would you want to wear a pair of fake jeans?!) I have decided to throw away my leggings.

 

At least until winter anyway… 

Never eat anything that is bigger than your head

My dad is full of wonderful advice.

Ever since I was little, he has always told me that I should never eat anything that is bigger than my head. For as long as I can remember, he has also always mocked me for having a tiny little head. So much so that my brother sometimes calls me “Pippin.”

He’s never really given much explanation to why I should never eat anything that is bigger than my tiny head and I’ve never really taken much notice of it. Mainly because he also told me that if I ever got attacked by a dog I should reach into its throat, all the way down to its tail, and turn it inside out. His little pearls of wisdom are not always well thought through.

I sort of wish that I had listened to his advice last weekend though. And I also wish that he had told me that I should never turn my car engine off and leave the headlights on. And because I didn’t listen to him, I ended up stranded and (practically) left for dead in Sutton Coldfield. And it all started with a 20” pizza. 

I had gone round to my friend Michelle’s for a girly gossip, pizza feast and face masks with Sophie, and because we are all little piggy’s, we ordered an enormous pizza from Big Johns (we are classy little pigs who also devoured a box of chicken nuggets whilst we waited for our pizza).

The massive pizza didn’t have any direct effect on the fact that I got stranded, but I can’t help but think that it brought me bad luck. The reason you should never eat anything bigger than your head is because the outcome is always going to be bad…

After dropping Sophie home, I couldn’t start my car. It turns out that you shouldn’t sit for two hours in the car with the lights on and without the engine running. 

After panicking for a little bit and calling Sophie’s most ‘car knowledgeable’ friend, I remembered that I’m a member of the RAC. So I called them, expecting them to reassure me that everything would be fine and someone would be out as soon as possible - a knight in a bright orange van.

I did not expect to be told that my membership had expired. The worst part of it was that it had expired ONE HOUR before I called. 

This week’s lesson? Always turn the engine and lights OFF if you’re not planning on moving for a while…

(Source: twitter.com)

Got (Mini) Milk?

Today, something terrible happened to me.

Something that shook me to my very core.

I went to buy a Mini Milk ice cream from my local corner shop, and they didn’t have any. 

What kind of shop doesn’t sell Mini Milks?

Instead, I was offered a poor-mans alternative; an ice lolly with popping candy at the very tip.

Ice LOLLY. Not ice CREAM. An ice lolly, as in, frozen flavoured water. Frozen water that came with a 35p price tag. I’m sure Mini Milks used to be 10p, and you got a bit of your recommended daily allowance of calcium thrown in as well. 

It was a terrible disappointment. 

I mean, to be fair to the ice lolly (and to the man in the shop who suggested it), it was actually quite nice. But that’s not the point – I wanted my Mini Milk.

I can’t help but feel that my Mini Milk aggression can be somewhat attributed to the fact that I’ve given up bread in the run up to my holidays. I don’t think I have ever wanted a cheese sandwich more than I do right now. 

In the weeks since Matt has gone, I have turned into a cheese and chutney sandwich beast. They are all I want to eat. So, in an effort to shed a few pounds before I go away, I thought it would be a good idea to give up bread. What a mistake. I didn’t realise how much I ate! It also doesn’t help that just before I decided I was going to quit bread, Matt had a huge box of chutney delivered to me (what a swine. He’s like an evil chutney dealer, tempting me back to the sordid bread side). 

Now I have four jars of chutney looking at me every time I open the cupboard. My only consolation is that once I do get to France, I am going to eat bread and cheese until it comes out of my ears. I’ll have a bread and cheese party, and it will be amazing.

In the meantime though, it looks like I’ll be taking out my bread cravings on the man from the local shop.