Stephanie Connolly  Writer   Wife   Mumma   &  Shoe Queen    ;-)                     
 
I’d like to begin today's blog entry by offering my sincerest apologies to the commuters on the 10:11 East Mids Train service to Bedford. Calling at Wellingborough, Kettering, Steph’s Booty and Bedford. And to satisfy any curiosity you may have, this is what I look like from the front. ——>

Had you had the opportunity to actually identify my face you would have witnessed the horror that I attempted to disguise as nonchalance, but my blushes would have given the game away. It was indecent, I know, and I am so sorry. However the exposure of my arse is an extremely infrequent occurrence and I can assure you all that it will *not be happening again. 

If it might be of any consolation to you, I’d like you to know that, my bottom, contrary to the eyeful you got this morning, was once one of my worthiest assets.

Indeed twas in fact the bearer of one of the most prestigious awards I’ve ever won. You see, ladies and gents, what you saw this morning, that sort of resembled a Belgium bun, was actually once awarded the title of Brannigans Bar’s ‘Rear of the Year!’ (in 2002 I think?! Either way it was a million moons ago. Ooops, pardon the pun!)

Yup! So really, if you think about it, you’re kinda lucky you got a quick flash for free. ;-)

Of course it isn’t often that my derriere gets to see the light of day. Not since it tried to battle gravity and sort of lost a bit. But today it seemed that my trusty butt fancied a cheeky glimpse of the outside world, so it took it’s chances, waited for a bit of wind, (not THAT kind of wind!) and escaped out of my flappy shorts.

Unfortunately, at that precise moment in time I had found myself trying to negotiate my way out of a mud puddle, (gimme a pair of heels and I can strut across the globe any-day, but put me in flats and I’m pretty much useless.)

My trainers squelching, my arms stretched out for balance and my face raspberry-red and sweaty. And that’s when the wind blew. And that’s when the train passed. And that’s when I decided to buy some nicer pants. (Oh and ensure I always, always include my bottom when slapping on the fake tan from now on.)

I’m not sure about weight, but I always manage to lose my dignity whenever I exercise.

Alas I have little choice at the moment. Not since it became very apparent that I have been carting evidence of some of my passions on my hips. I’m not kidding. It’s all there. All that sugar from when I replaced my nicotine habit with chocolate instead, all the yummy bread from my bread-making escapades, the extra wobbly bits from spending too long sat writing my book, the baby weight from my delicious babies (I didn’t eat them, you understand! (Though babies were about the only thing I didn’t eat whilst carrying my children.)) And now, much like Shakira’s, my hips are most definitely not lying.

And so, modesty intact or not, I’m on a mission to find that inner goddess (I didn’t eat her either, in case you were wondering,) and bring my sexy back. Yeah. (Did I mention, by the way, that Justin Timberlake is actually my other husband?! Yep. It’s true. Just thought that you should know.)

Of course the exposure of my arse isn’t the only tale I have to share with you on the topic of my new fitness regime, I have lots and lots to tell. But you’re gonna have to wait, because my bottom and I have already spent far too long sitting at the laptop for one night. ;-)

Steph x

* Unless under the influence of lots of alcohol / being paid ridiculous amounts of money / becomming so skinny that my trousers accidentally fall down lots.  
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30th August 2008

 “ . . . Now the drugs don’t work, they just make you worse. Or so I’ve been told.

 But that’s okay, cos right now I don’t need drugs anyway. I’m high on life.

 God that sounds ridiculous doesn’t it? But it’s how I feel right now, right now at this very second. And guess what? Instead of over-analysing this, like I do with most suspicious emotions, (I can’t help it, I’m female, it’s what we ‘do’) I have decided to embrace my new found high and run with it, (not literally though, I’ve already done enough exercise this week, thank you very much!)

 Speaking of drugs though, (and sorry if I get that crappy Verve song stuck in your head,) – I went through a stage not so long ago of really believing that I needed some kind of substance to keep me going.

I’m not necessarily talking about the illegal kind, (especially if any policemen happen to be reading this,) – I just felt like I needed a new addiction.

Cigarettes are out of the question, since I quit last July, (not that I’m counting the months or anything) – Jay won’t let me even look at them. Which is such a shame since I’ve sort of forgotten why I quit in the first place now.

The Nut Squad, (whom I haven’t seen in a least a week, (check me out!)) have prescribed me some kind of anti-depressant which makes me feel quite pissed, which is sort of nice, but can be a bit of a pain in the arse when it comes to putting my make-up on or something, (Co-Coa the clown needs to learn my techniques,) – They’ve also given me beautiful, beautiful drugs to take for when I need to sleep and can’t. I think they’re about the closest thing to heroin I’ll ever get my hands on, (heroin’s quite expensive isn’t it?!) I shouldn’t joke about that, heroin isn’t funny at all. It is just a waste of tea spoons, (or so I’ve heard.)

I’d love to get my mitts on magic substances of the green variety, or, ‘Wacky Backy,’ as my Mum still calls it, but unfortunately there’s not much call for it here in, ‘no mans land’, so all the drug dealers, (much the same as the pizza delivery drivers,) don’t seem to cover our area.

I was looking out for an addiction that doesn’t require a small mortgage to fund, (thus eliminating cocaine from the equation,) and doesn’t make you feel sick if you accidentally have too much, (so there goes booze too, which is good since the Nut Squad have forbidden me to drink just in case I end up sitting outside the local church with a can of Tens, slurring my words, peeing on myself and scaring the choir boys.)

In the end I settled for a very dangerous substance. Dangerous as it can be found in almost every household and therefore there’s no getting away from it. It is so amazingly addictive that they even sell it in our local shop, (which is a miracle, trust me) – no, it’s not aerosol sniffing, (I never did really understand all that sock and deodorant stuff anyway,) it is Chocolate.

One moment on your lips and a lifetime on your hips, yet I still crave it almost every evening. And now I can’t help but think how silly I am for wanting a new addiction in the first place.

Quickly I need a new fix? I’ll welcome all reasonable suggestions. Just don’t suggest I turn to exercise as we all know that that’s a load of bollocks. If exercise and endorphins and all that jazz were really as good as they’re cracked up to be, how come half of the world’s population is still obese??! Huh??! . Exactly. . .”

Seventeen months on and not only am I still a non-smoker but I am also a non-eater now too. (Of course I am still eating a bit, just not a lot.) And I’m kinda wondering what non-smoking, non-junkie, non-eating people do for kicks these days?!

Since I adopted my new saintly lifestyle I’ve found myself surrounded by rules and regulations. My new regime does not include consumption of chocolate, for example, which is a serious travesty. I am not allowed to smoke. Merely to breathe in the scent of somebody else’s cigarette smoke, (which may sound revolting to all you born and bred non-smokers, but is actually heavenly to former fag-heads like me.)  I am allowed to drink vodka, with juice, (cos at least that kinda counts as one of my five-a-day,) but Budweiser, (my beloved beer of choice) is totally outta the question.



So many rules. Too many for a gal with a rebellious approach to life, but I’m trying my very hardest to be a good-girl. After all it was my idea, (well, it was sort of me, the stroppy stubborn me that occasionally surfaces to put her two cents in from time to time.) And I can’t let myself down. (because stroppy stubborn Steph can be a force to reckon with you know.) 



I’ve got loads to tell you about regarding my mission to be a health saintly Steph, but for now I’m gonna indulge in something highly addictive which thankfully I know is good for me. Something I’ve been deprived of for way too long. Something that I know will leave me totally satisfied yet craving more at the same time. A little trip down Wisteria Lane and a large dose of the new series of Desperate Housewives. Yeah baby! :-)



Love to all



Steph x

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To you, to me. 23/01/2010
 
‘If at first you don’t succeed . . . Give up. Because the chances are you’ll probably always be a little bit s**t at it.’



There. Take it. And keep the sentence somewhere safe so that, in the unlikely event of my temporarily suffering from amnesia and attempting to decorate again, you can ram the sentence down my throat and make me eat my own words. Because decorating is NOT fun.



A good work-(wo)man never blames her tools. But it was their fault. Probably cos they were cheap and if you pay for peanuts you get crap.



The soft cushiony bit of the roller thingy keeps sliding away from the handle and every time I roll with too much enthusiasm, (not that I’m feeling that enthusiastic now,) the squidgy-bits flies off and splatters emulsion around the room.



And I’m covered, literally covered, in paint. I have tiny, weeny splattered dots climbing up my arms, drips on my face and in my hair and I am not a happy bunny.



I’m now ‘taking a break’ from a job that I shouldn’t have started in the first place. I knew I shouldn’t have started, I could see the expression on Jay’s face when I walked in from the shed with all the decorating stuff in my arms. He knows there’s little point in interfering when I’m on a mission, yet he might as well have sighed loudly and said, ‘Here she goes again,’ or something along those lines. He’s avoiding helping at all costs, because , like his stupid wife, he is also rubbish at decorating, only he knows it. Subsequently he's taken refuge in the pub and left me to it. And somehow I’ve got to prove him wrong for doubting my decorating abilities in the first place.



The thing is he’s right. I am rubbish at decorating. Only I keep forgetting. I thought it would be easy since it’s only the bathroom, it’s not huge and I’m not wall-papering, (the last time I attempted to wallpaper the paste proved insufficient and the entire family had to literally hold the paper up against the wall to keep it up! You see? Not my fault. Crappy tools again.) 



I’m wondering whether it would be okay if left as it is? I mean it still functions as a bathroom. Everything still works. There are a few little drips of paint in the bath, but they’ll wash out, surely? And I think bluey-white is a nice unique shade anyway?



Obviously I’ll have to hoover up the bits of shattered glass that flew around the room when I fitted the roller with an extension pole and began unintentionally smashing stuff. It must have looked as though I were auditioning to be the third Chuckle Brother.  First I smashed my Jo Malone Vanilla candle and then I turned around to see what  I’d smashed and accidentally whacked the crystal bubbles from my pot of random pretty stuff that lives in the bathroom. Perhaps I should have listened to Jay when he told me to clear the room before I started.



I wish painting was as easy in my real life as it is here, in my virtual world on the P.C. I could just click a few times and it would be whatever colour I wanted? When are they gonna invent that? Probably not in the next half hour so I guess I’d better get on with it.



It’s taken about 7 hours so far, and I’m about half-way through, so if any of you feel compelled to come help please do so :-) In the meantime I shall return to lay in the drippy, bluey-white bed I’ve made myself :-/



Steph x

 
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Stephanie Connolly, 25 interviewed by Lorelei Connolly, 5.  Enjoy ;-) x
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Mama Do 19/01/2010
 
Pregnancy is broken up into lots of different phases. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.

First there’s the ‘morning sickness’ phase. The title of which is such a false pretence for something that lasts ALL DAY.

Then there’s the ‘glowing phase’ - when a pregnant woman starts to show evidence of the extra pounds she has gained since being granted permission to scoff for England. And the extra weight makes the plumper woman sweat a little. And we say, ‘My aren’t you glowing!’ because we can’t say, ‘my god you’re so sweaty!’ to a hormonal woman.

Next you have the ‘nesting phase’ whereby the, now, extremely fat and sweaty woman makes a feeble attempt at a little housework, when the reality of the situation dawns upon her and she realises that perhaps she should have done a little tidying and washing once or twice in the previous 8 months after all.

And then there’s the phase that the books don’t tell you about. The one phase I don’t remember being warned of. It’s a secret phase you see. I’ll probably be frowned upon by authors of all pregnancy guide-books world-wide for sharing it with you. But it does indeed exist. And it usually occurs right before your bundle of joy comes *flying out.

I don’t know what its scientific name is, but I call it the ‘FREAK-OUT phase.’

The FREAK OUT phase, as if you need me to explain, pretty much does what it says on the, er, tin. In that it’ll make you, er, freak out.

Of course, there are variations of the phase. No two women will ever experience the same level of ‘freaking-out-ness’ for example. For some it’ll be horrendous. Like that point on a rollercoaster when you are slowly creeping to the highest peak, aware now that the height of the ride is much more impressive than it looked from the safety of the ground. You’re gradually reaching the point of no-return and any moment now you are to be plunged into the depths of the unknown. Spiralling into a series of stomach-churning, knuckle-whitening, thrilling and sickening loops. And there is a chance, just a chance, that you might not make it out the other side.

My own experience of the FREAK-OUT phase was not quite as bad as that, (thank god, cos the older I get, the more I like to keep my feet firmly in my shoes on the ground,) but it was scary all the same.

When I reached the point of no-return, when it became apparent that I was about to become somebody’s Mum, I did what I always do when there’s a crisis. I made a cuppa and then I wrote a blog.

You see I was frightened, not of being a Mother, but of losing my identity as an actual person. I wanted to be a Mum, but I wanted to be a Steph too. And I didn’t know you could do both.

This is yet another piece of advice that I wish I could have shared with my former self, it would have saved such a panic (and thousands of calories in chocolate and ice cream to help cure me from the effects of my ‘Freak-out’ phase.)

Cos I now know that there is no such thing as just a Mum.

A Mum, is a woman who has at least one child or more. She has nice neat hair and wears an apron. (This is my blog and therefore my interpretation.) She is very wise and kind, and insists on ‘teeth-brushed-before-bed.’ That’s a Mum.

I don’t own an apron. Not yet anyway. And my hair is very rarely neat. (It’s long, thick and there’s masses of it, so it’s usually sitting in a scruffy top-knot at the nape of my neck, in case you were wondering.) I am very wise and very kind, but I normally forget to remind my child to brush her teeth before bed. Because I am a Mum, but I am also a Steph. And ‘Steph’s’ can be scatty creatures from time to time.

I wish I wasn’t quite so scatty though. Because there is such a lot that occurs in this house on a day-to-day basis that I would love to have tattooed firmly in my mind for all eternity. Alas my scatty brain destroys most short-term memories to make space for gaining new knowledge. And I find myself forgetting such a lot of good stuff.

Lorelei lost her first tooth last week (not because I forgot to remind her to brush it, I hasten to add!) And  it was the highlight of her little life (spanning just shy of 6 years) so far. Honestly I have never seen her beam with such pride before. For hours she carried her tiny tooth around with her, to show it to all and sundry and later she began to refer to her ‘gap’ as though it were a new friend or something.

‘I can’t believe today is going to be my first day at school with a gap!’ she explains happily, her little tongue visible through the new hole, ‘I bet some of the children won’t even recognise me!’

Lorelei and her gap have been getting along famously ever since. Even though the Tooth Fairy very nearly forgot to come and leave a pound (still the going rate, you would have thought it would have increased by now?!) under her pillow.

(The tooth fairy as aforementioned is very scatty and adding to this was drinking lots of champagne at a wedding, when said tooth wobbled it’s way out  . . . Such a naughty tooth fairy she is.)

Well anyway, would you believe it, Lorelei’s baby brother has managed to cut his first ever tooth in the same week that Lolly lost hers and, what’s more, Leo’s first tooth is growing in the exact spot where Lori’s new gap is! I realise this may not sound nearly as thrilling to you as it is to me, but I wanted to document it anyway.

I love my role as a Mumma, it's a job and a journey that goes so well with being a 'Steph' too. I love those children more than i could express and I don't wanna miss a thing.

X

 

 

 
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They say you learn something new everyday. Well I’m not entirely sure exactly who, ‘They’ are, but I think They’re right. Certainly in my case.

I’m as inquisitive as they come. I like to learn, I like to know stuff. I’m a little obsessed if truth be told.



I did not, however, intend on acquiring any new knowledge at all today. Cos it’s Sunday. I suspect that when ‘They’ wrote the rule about learning new things every day, they forgot to add, ‘except on Sunday’s.’

Because everybody knows that Sunday is the Sabbath, which means it serves as little more than a day in which the alcohol can sufficiently vacate our bloodstreams in time for Monday’s to commence. It’s written in the bible you see.

And who am I to argue with that? If the big man upstairs insists on my complying to the rules of the Sabbath, by lazing around in my PJ’s, with my brain switched off, then I really should obey. After all I might never go to Heaven otherwise?

Well, at the risk of facing the flames, I have a confession to make. Today I broke the rules.

It all began when I forgot to get drunk last night. And that was because I was too busy suffering a hangover. Which might be because I now have some blonde highlights in my hair, (‘They’ also claim that blondes are somehow not as intelligent as brunettes,) which could possibly explain why I got my dates muddled up and got pissed on Friday night instead of Saturday.

To be honest I don’t suppose it matters how it happened. All that really matters is that I have broken the rules. Because I accidentally learnt a few things today.

The first piece of knowledge I acquired today was the meaning of the word, ‘Anthropologist,’ which was provided for me, amongst others, as a suggestion of words to be included in tonight’s blog post. The knowledge came directly from Wikipedia, one of my favourite sources of knowledge on the world wide web.

The second piece of knowledge I acquired was that seeking suggestions for words that I might use in my blog post was not a sufficient method to use in trying to cure writers block.

Thus the third piece of knowledge that I acquired today was that the statement ‘works well under pressure’ should probably be erased from my CV. Because tonight, after asking you guys what words I should include in this blog post, I discovered that I don’t work well under pressure at all. In fact now that I have a list of 10 words to include in this blog post, my brain is entirely void of appropriate content, I have spent hours trying to locate something even half intelligent in my empty head, but there’s nada and now I’m rambling, and I seriously doubt that any of this will make much sense when it’s finished.

The thing is I haven’t written a ‘proper’ blog in a few days now, and a couple of you have written to me asking why, which has made me feel a little guilty. And so, even though I am tired and poorly and quite obviously lacking in wit, intelligence and humour today, I felt I ought to write a blog post for you anyway, cos it’s so long overdue.



I haven’t got a lot to blog about. I have Steph flu again have spent much of my time in my delicious bed with ‘Connect FM’ to keep me company. My life hasn’t been greatly interesting and nothing dramatic has arisen (thank god and touch wood) - normally when my life is plodding along at a normal rate (which is pretty rare,) I let Divine Inspiration write my posts. Trouble is my divine inspiration has taken leave of absence and until she returns I’m afraid I don’t have anything worthy to share with you.

Well she’s been gone a while now, my divine inspiration and I hope she comes back soon, cos if she doesn’t I might have to get myself a proper job. I didn’t realise it but I’m pretty crap without my divine inspiration. And asking you guys to suggest words for me just won’t cut it.

Not that I’m blaming you. Indeed you picked fine words for me to include. And ordinarily I could find myself incredibly inspired by items such as Banana’s and Swallows, (although looking at them both in the same sentence I’m struggling to think of anything non-pornographic.) And if I’d had my brain I’m sure I could have written something extremely political and poignant about the Army, or indeed something sweet and whimsical to include the word, ‘serendipity’. Instead though I have produced this. A post about a load of bollocks.  

And now I know why they say Quality is more important that Quantity. (‘They’ really are very wise, aren’t they?!)


Fear not, I'm sure plenty of chocolate, ibuprofen and sleep will coax my Divine Inspiration back, and I promise never to blog in her absense again :-)

Steph x



P.S I'd like to apologise to Claire for not including your word, it was the hardest word of them all . . . ! Hope the picture will do instead?! :-) lol

 
Scuttle
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It's January. Officially the most depressing month of the year. Even if you have been blessed with the snow as promised (we weren't by the way, but that's a different story!) January still brings with it gloom and dispair as it dawns upon us along with the realisation that we spent and gained far too many pounds over the Crimbo period and now we have an age to wait til the sweetness of Summer rolls around again.

Alas fear not my pretties, for I come bearing an idea that I'm hoping will put that warm fuzzy feeling back into your hearts :-) Check it out.

Now i apologise for the snappiness of this post, but I'm a busy bee at the mo, I've yet to get back into the swing of things since we said goodbye to the festive season, and I'm working off those mincepies by tearing around like an Energizer bunny- but I'll be back on form within the next few days, I *promise ;-)

Steph x
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Interview . . . 07/01/2010
 
. . . On the subject of my book, With Lisa Haselton!

"Roll up, Roll up ;-) Read all about it!"

Steph x

http://lisahaseltonsreviewsandinterviews.blogspot.com/2010/01/interview-with-stephanie-connolly.html
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‘I find the Englishman to be him of all men who stands firmest in his shoes.’ - Ralph Waldo Emerson—1860



With a few minor exceptions, (my pronunciation of certain words, and tendency to slip into an Australian accent from time to time for example,) I am, without a doubt, your perfect representation of a typical English Gal.



I drink Tea in a crisis, (though I suspect Vodka would probably be more suitable.) I use irony, tongue-in-cheek and sarcasm to avoid having to directly say what I truly mean and I was born with every lyric in every Madness song already etched in my mind.



But I think the real tell-tale sign of my heart and soul belonging to Blighty is my irrational, and slightly odd obsession with the weather.



You see we English cannot conduct a conversation without a mention, no matter how brief, of the current climate conditions. It’s the Law in England.



Perhaps it’s because the weather here, in our part of the world, is one of the few elements in our lives that is ever-changing and so unpredictable? I don’t know. And right now I haven’t time to analyse. Because currently, at this very moment, as I type furiously, (my nails, irrelevantly, due a manicure,) I find myself in the midst of what can only be described as, a (‘Dun, Dun, Duuuurrrrrnnn’) MET OFFICE EMERGENCY.



There I was, stretched out on the couch, cosy and warm, my toes in my slipper-boots, my head on Jay’s lap when suddenly, my world was turned upside down by a news flash on the telly. I shot up in an instant, fearing the worst, and the upside-down-ness was corrected just in time for the announcement to be made.



A very important-looking lady, in very expensive lipstick, told us, in a very official tone that and I quote, ‘a warning has been issued.’



Snow is coming.



For some it has already arrived, though for us, here in the East Midlands, only a light, fluffy blanket of the white-stuff can be seen. Yet that is all set to change, according to the Weather Man. Yup. Over-night our pad is expected to be transported to the Antarctic.



Up to 40 cms of snow could greet us in the morning, if the weather reports are precise. I cannot claim to be fully aware of exactly how much 40 cms is, of course, as I was taught the metrics system by a boy, but it does sound a lot, quite impressive really, if it wasn’t such a crisis.



‘The trouble with the UK is that we’re never prepared for anything,’ we exclaim to one another, ‘When it’s hot we fall to pieces, when it’s freezing we fall to pieces.’ We tut. ‘The only country to be at a stand-still just because of the weather!’ We shake our heads, united in our disbelief that the Government have yet to find a solution to sufficiently deal with the British Weather. But it’s true. We run outta grit for our roads. Our trains derail, lorries crash, airports close. And all because fluffy, pretty cold stuff has fallen from the sky. And you’d think by now we’d figure out how to handle it.



I can’t really talk though. Cos I’m not prepared either. I was supposed to go food shopping tonight. Other than a couple of selection boxes and some dry-roasted peanuts left over from Crimbo, our kitchen cupboards are in a bit of a sorry state at the mo. Of course had I known it was coming, the snow, I would have hot-footed it to town this evening to stock up on tinned goods and toilet roll, torches and sleeping bags, candles and gas canisters and er, all the other stuff you need when a Warning is Issued.



Alas by the time I got wind of the Issued Warning it was too late. All the shops were shut. Only the 24hour Tesco’s in Wellingborough is open at this time of night and Jay won’t let me drive there was we have a headlight that’s out on our car. (Of course the Police will have more important issues to contend with, since we are in the midst of a MET OFFICE EMERGENCY, yet I cannot be bothered to argue with him.) He says we can go to the shop and stock up in the morning, of course he’s wrong. When the snow comes we won’t be able to get out of our drive, let alone into town.  Silly Man. I’ve made a mental note, to reserve this rare error of judgement for use in all future arguments between my husband and I ;-)



We could be snowed in here for weeks. Who knows? I’m wondering if I was a little too hasty in switching off the news in order to check the house for supplies now. But the weather man had lost my attention. He started going on about the ‘science behind the snow-fall’ and by that point I had already been whipped into a dramatic frenzy and was far too concerned with the survival kit to attempt to understand the scientific stuff. If I’d been a little more attentive the weatherman might have offered an estimation on how long this snow crisis might last?



Still must be very grateful for abundance of tea-bags and sugar in the pots at the very least. Lol ;-)



No business like snow business ;-)



Enjoy and take care!



Steph x x x
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Et voila! Crimbo & New Year all wrapped up again for another 4 seasons. And, though I love the fun and festivities, it is with a little sigh of relief that I slip comfortably back into normality.

I have flicked a cheeky finger at my superstitious-self by whipping the dec’s down a whole 6 days before the ‘12-Day’ rule. I did it yesterday. The tree, the garlands, the lights, the cards and the ornaments all packed neatly in the garage for next year. I concluded that it’s probably only unlucky to take them down early if you believe it is. And I don’t.

I’ve also decided not to make any resolutions this year either. In my experience resolutions only serve to make me feel unnecessarily guilty when, come Jan 5th, they are no longer in tact. So it kinda makes sense not to promise myself anything in the first place.

Of course there are plenty of life’s little pleasures that I ought to give up,  (chocolate, Diet Coke, Vodka . . . )  And plenty I could do with more of, (apples, exercise, shoes . . . ) and there are loads of random things I wanna achieve too, (help rescue orang-utans in Borneo, run the New York Marathon, sponsor a roundabout, that kinda thing . . . ) But I definitely don’t need to begin 2010 with more pressure and commitment upon my shoulders.

According to Wikipedia, NY resolutions have a teeny tiny 12% chance of success. And we all resolve to change the same stuff too. Year after year our motto’s and missions remain the same. To avoid failure, which I don’t do well, I am officially declaring that I’m not gonna change a single thing. ;-)

Having said that however there are a few things I‘ll definitely be leaving in 2009. I haven’t a choice. They’ve already gone. First to disappear was my gorgeous Red Lipstick. Which sucks since I’d grown rather fond of it of late, tis very rare to find such a good shade of red for my rather uneven pout. Alas it rolled it’s way outta my clutch on NYE never to be seen again. 

I have toyed with the idea of telephoning the Casino, to ask if it has been handed in, yet I fear they might underestimate the value of such an item and could therefore not take the matter as seriously as they should. Perhaps if I pretended it was some kind of spy device they’d return it to me? Just a thought.

So with the exception of the absence of my lippy, and the new dry-cleaning bill for removing the kebab grease from my red coat, (one cannot conclude a classy night out without a greasy meal of some kind after all) not a lot has changed in my world since last year.

I told you I was a good girl in 2009 and my sweetness did not go unnoticed. For Father C did indeed fill my stockings well! He didn’t exactly grant me with every little request on my list, but he did get me many a fabulous treat. And one of my fave gifts has been my new Wii Fitness Plus thingy. I cannot get enough of it. I have hula-hooped, dressed as a penguin and practised my balance, cycled, jogged, boxed and taken part in rhythm Kung Fu, all whilst still in my PJ’s in my very own living room. So far I’ve been on it everyday this year ;-) 

I feel tense, but good tense, achy, but satisfied. So I think I’m gonna make a habit of it, use the Wii to get extra fit and healthy this year. *Obviously that’s not a resolution though. lol

Hope your own resolutions are still intact? ;-)

Steph x

 
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